[Pictures of a Small Town in Missouri]

I can't relate to them Hi how are you, I'm fine how are you? Pleasantries they dull the mind dull the brain. My life is reduced to the question, and then to, I'm fine. I'm always fine and so are you. I act like I care, and sometimes I really do. But I can never remember where you went for dinner last night.

In my hometown I stand out like a sore thumb when I am in the city I am just another nameless face. Hi Abercrombie are you really from SoCal? My hair is blonde but yours is blonder. My brother loves my hometown but I have no hometown pride. Church dinners blue ladies cook and everyone is everyone's best friend. All I want to do is hide and I don't know them.

I walk past all the neat little yards each blade of grass standing firmly in place. Vote yes, vote no the picket signs say. I stopped knowing if there was a yes or no when is right and when is wrong. My father always knows who he will vote for.

In church my sisters pray eyes shut hands folded. I listen to the music and I feel my mouth moving. Jesus did you really walk on water? Man wrote of you so long ago.

In my hometown everyone noticed and everyone cared Did you hear can you believe it? But my world ceases to notice anymore. Big glasses tight pants long hair plaid shirt. They drive little cars we always drove big trucks. The oak tree by my house still has some leaves on it but some flew on the wind.

[Facing my American Dream]

I have joined the ranks of the lost,
the lost souls,
the souls that have fallen from their place,
searching for meaning in a world devoid.

I should have wandered without becoming lost.

I have been led on by the promises,
the empty promises,
promises of success, of achievement, of love
creating a ghost of my American dream.

I should have known which was glitter, which gold.

I have ceased to have that dream,
the beautiful dream,
the dream that inspired,
shaping my future and feeding off my ambition.

I should have numbered the stars.

I have joined the ranks of the lost,
a lost child, with forgotten aspirations.
A child whose dream has fled
with the crawling of days in the passage of time.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws…

[Old People Are Not Scary Anymore]

I used to be afraid of old people.

Old people smell funny. Their declining health is an all-too apparent testament to our human impermanence. Not to mention that they are often crabby, hard of hearing, hard to understand, and endlessly reminiscent of the past. Anymore, though, I don't mind old people. Old age is too far away for me to fear in any kind of meaningful way.

Now I am afraid of middle-aged people.

Because, you know, middle-age and its own particular set of horrors is just TOO DAMN CLOSE.
Getting wrinkles, getting fat, raising kids, saving for retirement, going to bed at 9 so you can be at work at 9 the next day. They cover up their tattoos and try to forget about their college days. It all sounds so boring, so mundane, so frightening in its very anomaly to the life I know now.

I just saw a couple pushing a stroller of twins. The children were fighting and their middle-aged parents looked harried and worn.

 I think I'm going to go out with some friends now, drink and dance and stay out till 3 am, sleep till 12, and do it again the next night. I think I'll get a tattoo while its still acceptable to show it, and I'll blast my grunge and post-grunge rock from my headphones. I think I'll run and stay active while my legs still work properly, before I hear the tell-tale aches and feel the tell-tale pains of middle-age. I pledge not to start saving for retirement yet, not to contemplate my future too much, and not to have kids for another few years at least! I pledge to have fun while I still can.

Because, you know, you're only young once.

[Crunch]

  Self-denial.
  That’s all it comes down to actually – the ability to deny yourself a thing that you want very, very badly. Some people call self-denial self-control.
  Self-denial is my weakness.
  I am tough. I can endure. I am tough to the point where I simply ignore pain; I suppose I’ve learned how to work through it – either that, or my scorn for anything “weak” prevents me from giving in. I can endure with the dogged determination that must’ve gotten soldiers through the Normandy invasion alive. I am so tough, and so determined in my endurance, that I have made myself weak.
  Today, I am going out to dinner. Dinner with good friends, to celebrate the end of a week of hard work, long nights, mid-terms, and the daily hum-drum and buzz of student life.
  We sit at a table, and everyone picks up the menus, oohing and aahing over the succulent, mouth-watering offerings; the best our limited student budgets can afford. I pick up mine, with two criteria in mind. Already, I’m looking for the cheapest dinners, and the healthiest. As I peruse the menu, my eyes scan buttery, carb-heavy, calorie-laden options that sound, oh, so satisfying. I’d like to order the beer-battered chicken; I’d like to try those sweet potato fries, or the pasta with the creamy, cheesy sauce. And oh, the desserts – shouldn’t even look at those.
  I’ve learned to just throw away half my meal before I even start eating.
  So I look at the menu, for vegetables, but the salads, served with heavy dressings,  sound just as bad (good?) as anything prepared without lettuce, tomatoes, or olives as its main ingredient. Everyone is chattering, laughing, trying to decide what to order. I can’t join in. I can’t talk. I can’t do anything until this crucial, all-important, life-changing decision is made.
  But now everyone else has ordered, and I’m still trying to decide. Which is worse for me – the chicken pasta or the chicken sandwich? I ate yogurt for breakfast, and eggs with toast for lunch. I want the patty melt on rye with sweet potato fries on the side (my favorite)…I did go running today.
  The waitress stands at my side. She taps her pen. Other tables are waiting on you, I imagine her saying. I order the chicken sandwich with vegetables on the side. I’ll throw away the bread, okay?
  Now I can relax, and so I join in the conversation. I forget how stressed I was a moment ago, and now all my worry seems silly. It’s just a meal, one little meal, right? I remind myself that I ran four miles earlier.
  And then the food arrives. As everyone else’s pleasure begins, my torture commences. I pull the top bun off my sandwich instantly, before I can even start to think how good the thing would be un-demolished. Already I feel better. Look how strong I am. I have so much self-control! I eat the vegetables first. I cut my sandwich in half. I feel stronger. I eat slowly. Oh, I can deny myself anything. Oh, I have so much self-control.
  Courtney offers extra sweet potato fries to anyone who wants them. They look so good, so warm, so fresh, so buttery. I pass the plate to the girl next to me. Oh, I am so strong.
  Everyone is done eating, we’ve paid, we’re preparing to leave. I ask for a box, I’ll take my cut-in-half, top-bunless-chicken sandwich home. 

  Jess looks at my plate and says, accusingly, You didn’t eat very much.
  Yeah, you need to eat more, they all chime in.
  I hate it.
  Oh, I had a big snack before we came, I lie. Don’t worry, I tell them.

(I like writing in the first person, okay? Maybe that's all this is about. Maybe none of this real. Maybe you should just take this literally. This is fiction after all, right?)

[Life Is...]

Life is a puzzle.
A puzzle that cannot be figured out.
Life is a web.
A web the deftest spider cannot untangle.
Life is a mystery.
A mystery too complex for solution.
Life is hard.
So hard, sometimes I want to quit.
Life is confusing.
So confusing, I often lose my way.
Life is unpredictable.
So unpredictable, I give up on my dreams.
Life twists and life turns.
Wicked, winding, twists and turns.
Life gives and life takes.
Some pleasant, some unwelcome, gifts and dues.
Life shocks and life surprises.
Shocks for better or for worse.
Life is a thief.
Emotions, feelings torn and stolen.
Life is a story.
Decisions, revisions made without us.
Life is a gift.
Breaths, thoughts given finitely.
 Life frightens, and life strengthens.
      Life teaches, life changes.
           Life exhilarates, and life hurts.
                Life is beautiful.

[No Shoes, No Shirt]

  This was inspired by a homeless man I saw the other day while I was on a run. I passed him as he was standing alongside the road, holding a sign made of cardboard. "Will work for lunch", it read. I didn't have any money on me, but I felt guilty as I ran past him. The image of him standing there, in his tattered clothing, hungry and tired, stuck with me for the rest of the day.
  I'm bringing some change along on my next run, just in case. And if I do see him, or one like him, again, I'll stop to buy him lunch. Me, with my multiple pairs of shoes, with my education from a top-15 school, with the support network of my family...it's the least I can do.

No shoes, no shirt
No shoes, no shirt, no service!
No money, no card
No money, no credit, no one sells.
No diploma, no degree
No diploma, no degree, not for hire.
No work, no money

No work, no money, no food.
No home, no shelter
No home, no shelter, can't sleep here!

No ideas, no way

No ideas, no way, no getting ahead.

No family, no friends

No family, no friends, no one helps.

No shoes, no shirt

No clue.

[Smile]

You ask me why I smile I say
It's easier to smile than cry
Cuz when you cry, everyone knows
That everything is not okay.
You ask me why I smile I say
I don't want your pity, see?

It's hard enough to fight my tears

Don't wanna ruin a happy day.
You ask me why I smile I say

I gotta be tough, I gotta be brave

Hide the hurt and hide the pain.

Woke up and said, just smile today.

You ask me why I smile I say

My sorrow's mine alone to bear
There's enough sadness here already, right?
And the world, it don't care anyway.
You ask me why I smile I say
I'd rather smile than cry, today.

[People Watching]

  An elderly man sits at a piano in the lobby of the hospital, singing opera. A middle-aged long-haired man pushes an elderly woman in a wheelchair, most likely his mother, outside to sit and wait while he smokes a cigarette. An entire family accompanies a family member to the doctor's office, waiting anxiously and sharing her concern.
  And behind me, people enter and leave the hospital. I see them rushing down the sidewalks. They run to catch trains, buses, and cabs. They hurry to meetings, appointments, classes. Medical students, businessmen, doctors, and nurses.
  And then, here I am. Sitting on a bench outside the hospital, waiting for my turn. I'm not rushing anywhere...I'm just waiting here, people watching. I could be frustrated that I forgot to bring a book (although I did go to the next door Barnes & Noble and read a book from off the shelf until employees started giving me funny looks), or impatient, because I've been here for two hours already. I could be sleeping (I did think about lying down on the bench for a quick cat-nap), texting, talking on the phone, or listening to my headphones. But sometimes, it's nice to disconnect, to unplug myself from all of that and just exist in the moment, time, and place that I currently find myself in. You can make some interesting observations just doing that.
  I watch people from different walks of life. The people you see on the train, on the street, so different from the people you see in the hospital, the people in suits, the people in scrubs. The train station smells like cigarette smoke, but the woman passing me and my hospital bench smells like expensive perfume. The train is peopled by backpack-toting medical students wearing harried, tired faces; by middle-aged blue-collar workers, carrying worn looks; the rare businessman makes an appearance, but he looks out of place with his tailored suit and leather briefcase. The hospital sees some of these types, but is more widely populated by elderly men and women whose wrinkled, aged faces bely their years; by mothers chasing energetic children, looking hassled; and everywhere, by busy doctors and nurses. But on the faces everywhere, I see worry. Fear. Concern. On the train, people wonder, "Will I be able to pay the bills this week?" "When can I get my next smoke?" In the hospital, they think, "What will my prognosis look like today?""Will my medicine help?"At least, that's what I imagine they are thinking. One part to people-watching is the story part. The part where you wonder why that hobo lives on the street, or how that teenager broke his arm.
  Today, I notice the worries and the cares, imagining that many of the people I see have momentous events taking place in their lives. You don't really go to a hospital for good news or with celebratory reasons. So today, I sit and wait and watch for two hours. And I notice the worried looks, and wonder why they are there, and what I should do to pass the time.
  And so, I smile. I smile at the people who pass, and say hi when I can. I ask the rushed radiologist taking x-rays of my legs if their short size makes his job easier. He surprises me, letting a laugh light up his tired face, and says, "Yes, actually, they do." I open a door for a woman in a wheelchair, her husband appreciative that he won't have to struggle to get the chair through the unwieldy door. I nod hello at the gardener and ask, "What's up?" For a brief time, I live in the moment and appreciate the good things in my life as I reach out to strange people. In a little bit, I'll plug back into my other life, the life not  sitting here on this bench. The life at school and home. I'll read and sleep and text and call people. But for right now, my life is centered in this moment, among these hospital people, and I'm reaching out, not pulling back into my own world.

  Incidentally, I did receive good news at the hospital today - bone scans proved that I actually don't have a stress fracture, more likely strained tendons. So maybe I was exaggerating, sometimes you do get good news at a hospital. So maybe I was imagining all the worry.

[Old Memories]

  Today I found out something, or rather remembered, something about myself. Something that, once, was very important to me, but has lain dormant, untouched, for a long time. Its funny, when that happens. When you remember something about yourself that you had forgotten, something that has been buried in the passage of time. The trigger is often unusual, and unexplainable. An old photo, a book, a song. Sometimes a smell or a place. But then the memory, or the feeling, hits you so hard. And you can't quite remember why you ever forgot to begin with.
  That happened to me today.
  I love it when that happens. Its like stepping backwards in time, a bittersweet step back, where you just imperceptibly touch or see the part of you that was lost, the memory that was faded but has resurfaced for a time. And sometimes it leaves as quickly as it came, changing nothing, life moving on the same. Like the time I walked in on my sisters watching a Disney movie. And suddenly, remembering being four and five years old, watching that movie over and over. I remembered insisting that my brother let me watch it, rather than his boyish favorites. I remembered curling up on the couch with my blanket and favorite stuffy, singing along with the princess on the screen. I had seen that movie many times since my childhood obsession, yet it was this one time that brought me back to that time. I wonder why.
  And again today, the trigger just as odd. The cover of a book, titled "Cavalrymen", with a picture of an ancient Roman soldier astride a war horse, spear raised, printed across the front. And I remembered being in third grade and learning about ancient Egyptian history. Random, I know. More importantly, I remembered how I used to be very interested in history of any kind - ancient Greek or Roman, European, medieval, modern. Last year at school, I randomly added a history major to my studies, and discovered my love for history. Or maybe I should say, rediscovered. But I didn't realize it was a rediscovery then. Not until today, when I saw that little book, did I remember checking out books from the library about castles, reading stories about Roman and Greek mythology, building a miniature pyramid out of clay.
  Unlike the movie-memory, however, I have to wonder, is this a sign?

[Goodbye to the River]

I found peace today
In the time when I just was.
I listened to the river's song
As it rippled over the rocks.
I felt it soothe my aching soul
As it said to me, "Just be".
I sighed and felt my lungs expand
And let myself be me.
I found contentment today
In the simplicity of natural song,
A song composed by water, birds, and rustling leaves.
These tender notes erased all wrong
All worries, fears, and doubts.
I felt nature stir my inner self,
Move the deepest places in my heart.
I breathed and felt the worry fly
Caught by the wind's graceful art.
I found peace today
In the time when I just was.
I listened to the river's song
As it rippled over the rocks.
I said goodbye to the river today
And thanked it for what was.

[Growing]

Drawing to a close
The safety net of home
No longer there to catch my fall.
My own path, my own decisions
Mistakes, corrections, and revisions.
Drawing to a close
Yet giving life to hope
An era at an end.
Where will the next one lead?
Like a fallen leaf borne upon the wind
Twisting, turning as it flies
I flit towards my destination
As of yet, unknown.
Drawing to a close
Time to move on
Time to grow.

Winter

The world outside was gray and cold. A bitter wind blew across the frozen ground, where dead brown grass lay in clumps. Trees rattled their stiff branches, missing the chirping and chattering warm, live things that used to brighten drab days such as these; the unwelcoming outdoors had shut them tightly into their winter homes.  
   He had been staring out his bedroom window watching the cold winter day, and had felt that the winter was actually within him, rather than outside, where it belonged. He had felt this way for a long time. The last time he could remember being happy was…well, not recently.
   He wanted to be like the strong, steady oaks outside his window that withstood the mighty winter wind. But he wasn’t like them; he was like the beaten-down dead things that weren’t strong enough to survive the winter. Like the flattened grass that had given in to the onslaughts of the wind and cold, he knew eventually that he too would give in to the winter that lingered in his soul.

   In some ways, that thought gave him peace, the only peace he had known for some time. The thought that there was an end in sight, at least.
  He had finally pinpointed the source of his unhappiness. Fear. An ugly, mighty monster that prevented him from doing the things he wanted most. He wanted to be out among the others, to laugh with them, to talk with them, to live with them. But the nagging, gnawing fear continued to grow. He didn’t think he was strong enough to overcome it.
  He was afraid of the future, afraid of the unknown. Always a planner, when his life had not turned out as he had hoped, he had sunk into this deep depression, was unable to rouse himself from its depths. He had attended a good school and obtained a degree in politics, but having grown disenchanted with the hypocrisy and self-interest of the political scene, had found his degree useless. He was unable to determine another course of study or career path to interest him, and had taken a job as a waiter at a dingy dive near his apartment, just to make ends meet. Perhaps it was the coarse nature of those who frequented the place - alcoholics and druggies, people just as disenchanted with life as he was - or the long, tiresome hours he worked daily to make ends meet, but his future had grown increasingly bleak the longer he stayed there. Yet, he couldn’t find the energy or drive to find another job.
  And so, as he stood looking through his window at the bleak wintry scene, he knew that today would be it. He had bought the pistol a few weeks ago, but had stored it away, hoping that something would change. But nothing had, and any remaining hopes he maintained had disappeared.
  Feeling a resolve he had not felt in a long time, he withdrew the pistol from its drawer. It was already loaded, making the job even easier. The cold, dead weight in his hands, the shiny smoothness of the barrel, none of it scared him, and at this he was surprised. He had expected to feel anxious and uncertain, but this unexpected strength of will only made this seem the right decision.
  Turning from the window, he slowly, steadily brought the pistol to his mouth. He pulled the trigger.
    
   Outside, young green shoots had begun to poke their tips out from the cold ground among last summer’s dead grasses. Spring was just around the corner.
   He could not have seen these signs of new life from his vantage at the window. 

[Bonfires]

I remember bonfires by the lake
A flicker of orange against the dark.
I remember never ending summer days,
moments never to return made into memories
that slowly fade.
Memories, like the embers in a dying fire, smolder.
They smolder away.
Faces, voices, I see and hear them all
Dying in the march of time.
Drawn out as on a line,
The farthest dying fastest.
But still I remember bonfires by the lake.
The glowing flicker that danced on all our faces.
When young I never traveled to far-off places.
Yet I would never trade
The dancing flames
For a trip to England to ride upon the Thames.
Would never trade the comforts of our home,
for the history and loveliness of Rome.
For now that I am older, and grown
I can travel the world I never saw when young.
But never will the bonfires by the lake return.
Remember the time? Remember when?
Can't bring back now what was once,
and then,
no more.

[Illusions]

I'm an old soul flying on the tail of time
A comet in a timeless chase.
Timelessness is all around,but my light is finite.
Leave a trail, leave a spark.
It;s hard to lose the dark.
Looking for light when I'm already blind.
Too late, too late.
Never too late?
That's what they said
But it's too late now.
Is it all an illusion?

[The Unknown: A Million Little Pieces]

"No one is more shocked than I," says Robert Mason in the epilogue to his book Chickenhawk. 

Mason is referring to his arrest and imprisonment following his return from Vietnam. Mason was arrested for drug dealing, even though he had never used until he returned from 'Nam, to deal with the nightmares he couldn't overcome, vestiges of the war-scenes he had lived through, memories of men he would never see again. A destitute law-breaker - not someone he had ever thought he would become.

Am I the person I thought I would become? I don't know. I don't even know if I thought about who I would become. I thought about, and still think about, what I want to achieve. I want to become a writer, and maybe a professor. I want to become an accomplished and successful equestrian. But achievements do not define who you are. I have met successful people whom I would never trust with my back turned. What kind of person do I want to be? A good person, a kind person. A person who touches other's lives in meaningful, positive ways. A person who reaches out, who is there without being asked. A person that serves others.

Concentrating on this question, posing it to myself, causes me to worry. It causes me to evaluate the person I  am today, to wonder if I like what I see. My life is laid be fore me, a million little stepping stones, endlessly the same, ending a day at a time. I watch it pass, at times at a terrifyingly fast pace, at others, painfully slow, and it’s damn scary. Three years ago I was a fresh-faced freshman with a winner-takes-all view on life, ready to conquer the world. I can’t feel how I felt that year, again. Five years ago I was a high school junior, making the seemingly all important college decision. I can’t remember what I was hoping to find then. Ten years ago I was a carefree little kid, with the world at my fingertips. I can’t remember how that felt, either. It’s funny, how you get older and the world slips away. You feel like you’re chasing it down, a step at a time but it stays just out of reach. Sometimes I feel up to the challenge, and I follow that world, believing I’ll catch it in time. It’s an illusion, and so I sink away. I lose the desire, the feeling of challenge, of inspiration, of the power to make my future. I’m a cog in a wheel, a tool that has no more control over the outcome than a mindless machine. 

I don't want to reach a point in my life feeling like Robert Mason, wondering at, and being shocked by, the person I have become. And so, I must learn to accept the little pieces, the daily challenges. Must learn to build the stepping stones into something greater. That is the challenge. To be an artist, a sculptor. Maybe I should add that to the list. A sculptor of my million pieces, the pieces that make up who I am. And, like an artist, to constantly work at them, to change them, to add them together to create something beautiful. 

 

Short Story

   I've been writing this story for a bit, it's supposed to be about a Vietnam soldier who is in the hospital.
But I can't finish it until I know more about the war. So....until then, this is where it starts.


“I didn’t ever get hit,” I tell him.  “And don’t go callin’ me a coward, sayin’ that I’m not wounded ‘cuz I hid from the fightin’. Not me. I didn’t let my buddies face down the enemy alone. I just got lucky, is all. I seen my fair share of battle, all right, and that’s what my hurt is. Every single night I see ‘em again. I see my buddies goin’ down, bloody, torn up…dead, sometimes. That’s bad, you know. But to me, there’s somethin’ worse.
  That’s when the bad guys are right close, and you can see their faces. You can see right into ‘em. They’re afraid, same as you. Maybe they don’t wanna be there, same as you. Maybe they don’t know why they’re fightin’, same as you. But somebody tol’ you, and somebody tol’ them, that you gotta fight. So you do, and they do, and one of you gets lucky, and one of you don’t. And that’s the worst. When you look at ‘em, and see that they’re people just like you. And maybe they got kids and a wife, or a girl back home, like me, I got a girl. Kate.
  But you point your gun at ‘em and you kill ‘em anyway, ‘cuz if you don’t, they’ll get you. And you think, ‘Hell, that could have been me.’ And then you move on.
  Made me sick to my stomach the first time, when I killed somebody right close-up like that.
  That’s when I quit lookin’ at ‘em, lookin’ at their faces.
  That’s what my hurt is, and it’s bad. So bad that the docs say I got shell-shock. Patton beat a guy up for that, you know. Slappin’ him and yellin’ at him. He didn’t think it was real, thought that poor sucker was makin’ it up. But I guess its real…I don’t know.
  Sometimes I think I just got so sick of all the blood and the killin’. What’s it all for anyway?
  ‘Gotta stop the commies,’ they say. The commies, they’re bad, I know. We gotta stop ‘em, I guess. But I can’t take it no more.
That’s why I’m sittin’ here in the hospital. This is jus’ me thinkin’, passin’ the time. I been here for awhile. There’s a part of me that wants to go back, you know. I can’t let my boys face this alone. But when I sleep I hear him screamin'. I see his blood, and his face is just…gone. I look at my hands all covered in blood, can’t wipe it off. Happens every night, always the same. I wake up screamin’ and sweatin’. They gotta give me meds to calm me down. Can’t hardly eat, can’t sleep, and can’t fight ‘cuz I can’t eat or sleep.
I got a notice the other day, sayin’ I gotta go back. I’m scared stiff, don’t want any more of this hurtin’ and killin’ but I gotta go. ”
I’m tired now. All this talkin' has worn me out. All this explainin' so the guy in the hospital bed next to me, the guy who took a gunshot to the gut, won’t think I’m a coward.
 “Maybe I talk too much,” I say.
  Now it’s his turn to look at me hard. I can see that, just like I did with him, he wants to know if I’m tellin’ the truth. I’ve got that defensive feelin’ in my gut, sittin’ here with him scrutinizin’ me like that. He don’t say anything for a couple of long minutes. But I guess he must have seen the fight in my eyes, must have known from that I was tellin’ the honest truth.
  “Son,” he finally says. “Like they say, war is hell. And you’re always going to have your brave men and you’re cowardly ones. You know you might get hit, cut up, might die, even. But you don’t know what kind of horrors you are going to see. And there’s nothing in this world that can prepare you for that. Like you said, in many cases, what you see is worse that what you feel. This wound I’ve got,” he gestures to his stomach.  “This is going to heal. And then I’m not going to remember how it felt when I was hit or how sick and sore I was after half as well as I’m going to remember the images of my buddies bleeding and dying on the field. Some of us are better at blocking those memories than others.
   Those images being burned into your brain like that, they don’t make you a coward. They just mean that you’ve seen some of the worst of the fighting, that’s why you’ve got those pictures in your head. Maybe a coward wouldn’t have seen all that.
  But if you let this whip you, if you shirk your duty when your time comes because of this, then you are a coward. As soon as you are deemed fit for battle,  then you had better go. And you had better do your damnedest because there are other men whose lives depend on you. If you let them down, then you are a coward. You said you were scared stiff. But you also said you’re going to go. And you are going to do your damned best back there because its you duty.
  I want you to know that I respect you for that. It’s not easy, and I know that least of all between the two of us. I’m good at blocking those types of things. Maybe someday they’ll come back to haunt me and I’ll be in your position. But right now, it looks like I’m the lucky one.”
  He was finished. I sure appreciated his words, all right. I think I needed to hear ‘em, to know that somebody else don’t think I’m a lesser man just because of this.
  He was right though, about goin’ back. As much as I hate it, as much as it scares me to death, the honorable thing to do is to go. Like he said, I got buddies back there, and there's other guys back there, layin’ down their lives. It would be cowardly and plain mean of me to think I’m the only one who’s got this. I just got a break for awhile, is all. 

Unintended Consequences

   I went to the library today to do some reading for class, and ended up reading a book I noticed on the shelf, If I Die in a Combat Zone (Box Me Up and Ship Me Home), instead. It's incredible so far. Incredibly sad, touching, and thought-provoking.
   The author is a Vietnam veteran who was drafted, and completed a tour in Vietnam, while being deeply opposed to the war throughout his experience. He talks a lot about cowardice and honor. How people look at each the wrong way. Is refusing to fight in a war you don't believe in cowardly? Courage is not simply running headlong towards the enemy. Courage, he says, "is the endurance of the soul in spite of fear." Courage is when, knowing what is right, you do it. It's not all bravery. It's wisdom, and strength, with a little bravery thrown in, too.
   The other day, I was talking about technology. Today, most everyone has at least a TV, cell phone, and computer. And I feel weird, lost a little,when I don't have my phone by my side. Just sixty years ago, nobody had these things. Today they all feel so normal, and we expect Apple to come out with the next big thing.
   So the 20th century saw the biggest, most impressive technological advancements in the history of the world.
   The 20th century also saw the most brutality. The most lives lost. The most devastation.
   A man thinks he is justified in wiping out an entire race, and then others try to follow in his footsteps. A country decides it's better to drop its most devastating weapon on innocent people rather than risk the loss of more military lives in the war it's waging, and then does it again. Fifty years following see the development of more of these types of bombs.
   No one knows how many people Stalin killed, but I've heard between 12 and 60 million. Can you even imagine?
   And I can't help but think, that technology made all of this possible.
   Albert Eistein's theory of relativity helped other scientists in the later development of the atom bomb.
   He later called it his most regrettable contribution to science. He never intended his discovery to lead to the loss of thousands upon thousands of lives.
   How did technological advancements help the Soviets spy on their own people? Today, the number of nuclear weapons has gotten completely out of control, and we wage more wars to stop others from making them too.
   It's disgusting, terrifying, how much horror the human race is capable and willing to inflict. Einstein's and others' discoveries weren't always intended to inflict harm, but others used them to do so.

    Some people say, well, this or that war is justified. I ask, for whom, the soldiers who risk their lives fighting for leaders who treat them as pawns in a global game of chess? For the innocent women and children, the "collateral damage", dying for the "greater good"? I think people use that as an excuse.
   Back to the courage thing. So many young men were brave in Vietnam, and so many died. They were brave whether they believed in the war or not. But America still lost. I guess I don't really have a point here.
   Other than to say, nobody wanted all that to happen. Einstein wanted his discoveries to be used for good. America wanted to save the South Vietnamese from Communism. I want technology to save lives in the 21st century, not take them.

[Control]

One of my best friends from childhood jokingly calls herself a control freak. When we get together, she’s the one who makes the plans, determines the time and day, and navigates our time together. I’m more of a go-with-the-flow kind of person, so stepping aside and letting her take control is fine with me. But it does lead me to ponder the idea of control. Are we ever really “in control”? With so many social forces moving independently, should we even try to control…anything? People resist it, the world defies it, and it leaves the “controller” frustrated at the very least, at most, failing.
   But still we seek control. We want to control our lives, the world, our friends’ lives. We seek control in less obvious ways.
   At my university, Relay for Life is the biggest on-campus event of the year. Students campaign for months, eventually raising a couple hundred thousand dollars for cancer research every year. Their slogan is “Let’s Celebrate More Birthdays”. By funding cancer research, contributors can (potentially) help loved ones fight cancer, live longer, see their next birthday. A minimum donation of $10 gets you into the event.
   I never went.
   People think they can “cure” a disease. Forever. Eradicate it. Eliminate pain and death. Relay for Lifers seek to control cancer.
   Sometimes, I think people with terminal illnesses are lucky. They learn how to appreciate every minute in ways no one else can. When you expect your life to march before you in unending (seemingly) succession, its easy to forget its transience. People pass around the old adage “don’t take life for granted” like they actually mean it. But these same people are the ones who live by the clock, follow a daily 9 to 5 schedule. The busy, boring, people. They don’t mean the phrase the way ill people do. Terminally ill people were often once the people who worked 9 to 5, too. The ones who got so busy managing the basic necessities of life – eating, sleeping, family, money – just like the rest of us. But now, the endless stretch of life before them has a big red STOP sign somewhere down the road, visible and inevitable. So the seconds, minutes, days before the STOP sign march to a beat. “This is it,” they say. “My LAST day, my LAST time here, LAST, LAST, LAST!” They learn how not to take life for granted.
   I wish I could learn how to do that – appreciate the “last-ness” of days and minutes, the finiteness of my existence. But unlike those Relay for Lifers, I’m not seeking to control life.
   I think there is beauty in chaos. The suspense, the not knowing, the surprises. These are gifts from life. Every event has beauty within it, lessons for us and for future generations. Control stifles life’s spirit.
   I’m not saying more birthdays are a bad thing.
   And I’m not saying I want to die of cancer, either…… (STOP)

"As One"

  I sit quietly in the saddle, blankly staring between the ears of the round bay pony. This is our first show together, and we are both nervous. Her amber eyes are large, and her ears flit back and forth. A dog barks in the barn, wind rustles through the trees, a fellow show-pony whinnies...few details escape her attention. I, on the other hand, notice little of it. My thoughts fly...she is a young pony, inexperienced, I have only been riding her for one month...

  A cute gray pony trots out of the ring. That means it's our turn in ten minutes - three more horses to go. I go over the course of brightly painted jumps mentally. I can hear my trainer saying, 'If you ride it in your head before you ride it on your pony, you'll be much more prepared." Okay, breathe deeply. Ride it mentally. Take this turn wide, balance, balance, count her strides one, two, three, jump, land, balance, count one, two, three, four, jump...last jump, balance up to it, count, jump, land, steady her pace, we're done. Now I know where to be careful, where to keep her pace slow, where to push her for a longer stride to get that distance, that perfect take-off spot. My thoughts are calmer now, and the butterflies are gone. I can feel her muscles relax, the soft movement of her tongue as she plays with her bit. She, too, is ready.

  We walk into the ring. We are alone. For three minutes, only the round bay pony, the course, and I, exist. The steadiness of her walk and her trust in me give me strength. Good girl, I pat her, we can do this. She begins to trot and we make a preparatory circle. I ask her to canter, and she responds, quietly and smoothly gliding into the faster gait. Good, now we are having fun! The wind in my face, the steady beat of her hooves, the sound of her breathing...we are one, this is how it's supposed to feel! Straight ahead is our first obstacle, balance, balance, count her strides, one, two, three, jump, land, balance, count one, two, three, four, jump...here it is, our final jump, balance up to it, count, jump, land.

Zdravsvyte!

...or hello, in Russian.  I 'm a Russophile just to warn you! Expect random insertions of Russian words, quotes, and mentions of Russian books throughout my blog.

   Welcome to In Passing... I hope you find my writings thought-provoking and interesting. Rather than simply passing through, however, I hope you will become a regular reader. In Passing... is actually a reference to life itself - as finite beings, we are merely passing through it. Once we have completed our "passing", only our memories remain...but they too, can be finite. Quite frankly, that's a daunting, sometimes frightening, thought. And at the very least, it's a thought that provokes me to ponder the importance of my very fragility, the transience of my existence. But it has inspired me as well. It has inspired me to take note of each passing day, to revel in my time here, to appreciate the beauty around me, and to return some of this glorious beauty to others, my own legacy.

   This is why I write - to share my observations, my experiences in the passing.