@ rest

been beating a dead horse for several years now.

- the War.

- the Marines.

as if i were still an integral piece of the puzzle.

a cog in the wheel of international relations.

stems from my writing, i know this.

these are things i just know.

struggling to remember, to document, to create.

alas, there comes a time when a Marine's gotta drop his pack.

i'll spare ya the many apt metaphors, but ya gotta just put the whole damn thing to rest.

remember those years of boozing and brawling and globe-trotting, with a fondness only time can present.

otherwise ya might just end up a joke.

a punch-line to some skit on SNL;

a one-beat character on Gray's Anatomy

- choking out the lil' lady, spooning gone terribly wrong.

hoarding spilt-peas and bullets;

trip-wires in the backyard;

begrudging every last civilian who didn't serve.

so it's rest.

night-nights.

- the War.

- the Marines.

a piece of time that defined;

that guides;

that reminds.

- look in the mirror.

sun-burned and leathered.

far off eyes.

hands grizzled.

- connect the scars and remember when and where and how.

and why.

the .50 cal thumb;

the forced march in boots three sizes to small;

blisters faint now, smoothed over by cashmere socks, but so deep you couldn't walk;

toes numb, frostbitten in some fighting hole as ya hamstered sunflower seeds.

back sore, unremitting, nagging like am eastern european mother-in-law.

- 150 pound rucksacks hitching a ride for 20 miles or so did that, i think.

those are the "when's," the "where's", the "how's."

and the "why."

well, you were a kid.

that's why.

real simple, Timmy.

take a deep, deep breath.

chest huge, puffed up.

pulmonary alveolus wide open, flooding the bloodstream with oxygen.

and wait.

just wait.

it'll come.

feel it.

warm and tingly.

hold it for a moment.

just a moment.

a fleeting wonderful moment.

and exhale,

like whisper...

relations w/Vets

they're complicated. 

because you're different.

just a little, but still different. like it or not.

and perhaps victims of violence and tragedy are the same way. 

you can't be exposed to such gore and insanity without losing a piece. 

the veneer chipped, exposed.

doesn't mean all Combat Vets are.

no. 

not at all. most.

but they've opened a door to a world that civilized American's desperately try to lock. 

or at least mock. 

attempt to desensitize themselves through graphic depictions of violence/War in TV/movies. 

and it works, mostly.

because i can remember the first time i saw a dead man. 

not a nice embalmed old timer with a red carnation pinned upon his breast, but a young man.

like me, only born on the wrong side. probably unemployed. probably patriotic. and unlucky as hell.

had a hole in his head, shot in the medulla oblongata from behind. right eyeball missing. 

big bloody hole - the exist wound from a sniper's 7.62.

remember telling myself, "this looks just like the movies." 

"just like the movies..."

so it's been nearly six years, but he's still around. shows his face occasionally. can't shake him yet.

so i read freud's, "on the interpretation of dreams, " to figure things out. understand. banish the fucker. 

and a certain part resonated with me - just a small passage regarding the rods and cones of the human eye. 

and to paraphrase mr. freud: anything the eye sees; that is registered by the rods/cones, is forever ingrained within that person's brain housing group.

meaning, you see it, it's with you forever. 

hidden away in some fleshly wrinkle. crumpled and desciated - waiting for rain.

and it explains those mysterious people/places/objects in your dreams. some way or the other, that image was seen by you. 

really.

although your conscious mind didn't recognize it, the subconscious sure as hell did. 

logged and classified. 

it's hard to explain this because it's...well...it's cliche. 

everything turned into a joke and acknowledged with a smirk.

but some understand, or at least try to.

and that's what counts.

and when you find one, you should probably keep 'em.

as for the rest, well, try not to stare as they circle the bowl...

"intervention" on A and E

i think i need an intervention from watching "intervention."

really.  this show is so utterly indicative (addictive) of 21st century Americana, it needs to be preserved in the Smithsonian. right next to re-runs of "i love lucy," and the Spirit of St. Louis. 

synopsis:
comically depressing addicts vomit nearly every detail of their sordid lives in front of a camera. add in producers who i suspect supply the dope/booze to said addicts in order to get their shockingly candid sound-bites and a small contingent of family members who want to intervene  - and there you have it: "intervention," on A & E. 

sometimes you gotta take a second and decide if you should laugh or just cringe. i mean, it's on tv, so for all intensive purposes, it's entertainment - but i kinda feel bad for being entertained. or maybe it's because i've been exposed to the same exact shenanigans in years past. who knows...

and of course, there's the obligatory disturbed Iraqi Vet; Brad...geeez. 

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