Sapoem from Glass

I love you grey bear
You are so sweet
You always tell the truth
You never cheat
You are my sunny day
After years of rain
You are my day of peace
After years of pain
When I think of you
I remember times of joy
Like a tiny child
And a shiny new toy
You're my best friend
My soft place to land
No matter how far away you are
I know you hold my hand


We always write silly poems like this back and forth. More her than me, I'm sure you could guess. This one was written to me about ten days before what I quickly began referring to as my "nervous breakdown." I almost lost her. Worse, I nearly threw her away.

HOW I RATE THINGS, ESPECIALLY MOVIES

If you're anything like me, here's how you'll react. Essentially.

• 0: You'll want to destroy it.
• 1: You will regret it.
• 2: You will forget it.
• 3: You will enjoy it.
• 4: You will talk about it.
• 5: You will buy it.
  

P.S. I Love You

A movie starring a surprisingly attractive Hillary Swank, and our role model from 300 The King Leonidus, Gerard Butler. Let's not forget, the best actress alive at the moment, Kathy Bates. Nor should we overlook a convincingly spastic Harry Connick, Jr.

The movie was so damn sad, you'll end it wishing you had stock in Kleenex. Great! Gotta be the Best Dramatic Chick Flick I've seen.

"P.S. I Love You"
4 stars

Juno

I had yet to see any of these movies about a girl getting knocked up--including "Knocked Up." I can't stand it when the movie industry does that or allows that to happen. Like when "Saving Private Ryan" came out. Next thing you know it was "Hart's War", "We Were Soldiers", "Black Hawk Down", and so on.

So, my "week off", I can't find anything I haven't seen or am willing to see at Block Buster. My wife wants a movie, though. So I grab a chick-flick. "Juno". I figured I had to start sometime.

It turned out to be Unexpectedly Beautiful. But that didn't occur to me until near the end. More importantly, the dialogue throughout the movie was hilarious.

"Juno"
3 stars

WHAT’S YOUR LENS AND IS IT HELPING OR HURTING YOUR RELATIONSHIP?

From Straight Talk on Relationships

Often we have a view of our partner that does not serve our relationship well. For example, if my view of my partner is that he’s selfish then, if I’m not careful, I can easily interpret 90% of his behaviors as selfish.



In essence I could create a “selfish” lens from which I view all his actions. So if one day he forgets to take out the garbage, and another day he has a migraine and doesn’t take out the garbage, my lens doesn’t allow me to process the difference between those two different, yet seemingly same acts. My lens leads me to assume the worst from my partner which leads to greater frustration and negative feelings, on my part.



Seldom is this negative lens present in the early stages of relationships. In fact, when relationships are newer, we tend to see our partners through much rosier lenses; we’re more than happy to give our partner the benefit of the doubt. We see our partner’s actions as mistakes or perhaps an oversight. Rarely, at the beginning of a relationship, do we interpret our partner’s actions as out to get us, or selfish, or a sign of his or her lack of character. We simply deal with the behavior and try not to make it a huge issue.



This understanding however, seems to fade the longer people have been together. After years of living together, the rose colored glasses come off and are often replaced with a much more clouded lens that is, of course, skewed in the exact opposite direction. Now our assumption is that our partner does what s/he does because s/he is… (Fill in the blank), or because s/he just wanted to stick it to us. Seldom do we give our partner of several years the benefit of the doubt…and more often than not, we assume the worst.



Now, many people say they know their partner which is why their lens got the way it did. They will give me countless examples of how right they are in their view of their partner and will ask me a number of variations of the following questions: What if my partner really is _______? What if s/he really is just trying to stick it to me? In essence, what if my lens isn’t really skewed…it’s just real?



Here’s my reply… ready? It’s not real, you don’t know what your partner’s intentions are, and YOU”RE OFF. Take a moment to let that in.



The reason you’re off is because nobody is ALWAYS anything. No one is always trying to stick it to their partner, although there are times when this might be true. Nobody is ALWAYS selfish, ALWAYS irresponsible or ALWAYS_______ (fill in the blank) either…although they may be any one of these on occasion. The problem with having a clouded lens is that you see everything through that lens; you no longer see the whole person and you make dangerous assumptions of every imperfect behavior or interaction.



We’re all human therefore we’re all imperfect. Sometimes our imperfection is spiteful and sometimes our imperfection is just a sign of our humanity. Giving one another the benefit of the doubt by simply addressing the behavior rather than adding intent or character flaws to it actually helps our partner and our relationship. Imagine if your partner assumed you were on her/his side…even when you messed up? If your partner thought the best of you, rather than the worst, that faith is likely to actually bring out the best in you.



I believe that people rise or fall to the level of our expectations; the greater our expectations, the greater their performance. Stop assuming the worst about your partner and play with giving him/her the benefit of the doubt. Assume s/he is on your side and is just making mistakes because of circumstances that have nothing to do with you (i.e. childhood issues, stress, fear etc.). Assume that your partner’s mistakes are simply mistakes that need to be addressed and fixed, not passive aggressive attempts to get back at you or character issues that are permanent.



CHALLENGE: Play with the color of your lens for the next two weeks. Be determined to take your partner’s behaviors at face value and to not give meaning to them or attach some type of character flaw on them. Pay attention to any changes you notice as a result of this shift.

WE WEAR THE MASK by Paul Laurence Dunbar

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

RICHARD CORY by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went downtown,
We people on the pavement1 looked at him;
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king–
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

WHEN YOU ARE OLD by William Butler Yeats

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Prosthetic legs, please. Preferably titanium.

I've never been suicidal before. I've been drowning in depression. To the point of being catatonic, but I've never felt so much heaviness that I actively sought death.

Something about this year, though. Something about the added burden to the responsibilities of being a husband.

Before, any emotional turmoil was like beatings ending in broken bones. Incredibly painful. This, this was like looking down at your body after an especially nasty encounter, and not seeing your legs. Instead, you see your intestines spilled out where your legs should be. You can't imagine ever recovering. Ever being whole, complete, functional again. You wait, anticipating death's mercy. But it doesn't come. You should be dead by now. There's no way you should be able to survive this. Nobody should dare expect you to. The pain is so overpowering in its rawness, it's like you're choking on a cow's fresh heart, after it's been slapped against a cactus and dropped in the sand. Like you're a soul-scorched vampire drowning in a sea of blood.

A person in such a situation may conceivably find a way, just enough willpower, to drag their self to the cliff's edge. And over.

I just wanted to walk into the water and drift away. Like a broken walking stick, or arrow, or bow. My purpose lost.

It was a beautiful day, even I could see that. As such, the beach was overpopulated with swimmers, all too happy to deprive me of my leave.

That's when my survivor kicked in. I called for help from the professionals. Let's hope they find my legs. Or give me some titanium ones.

Clementine Paddleford

Never grow a wishbone where your backbone ought to be.

Steven R. Covey

Before you wonder 'Am I doing things right', ask 'Am I doing the right things?'

Majorie Kinnan Rawlings

You kin tame a wild-cat &... a panther... You kin tame arything, son, excusin' the human tongue.

Dusk

In my endeavors to fry the big fish, I oft' forget how fun it is to bake the small ones!

Dusk

I am the sea in which I drown.

Mark Twain

Don't let your schooling get in the way of your education.

Montaigne

I have never seen a greater monster or miracle than myself.

Susan Ertz

Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do on a rainy afternoon.

Helen Maciness

Nothing is interesting if you're not interested.

Anonymous

The two hardest things to handle in life are failure and success.

Mignon McClaughlin

What you have become is the price you paid to get what you used to want.

Mignon McClaughlin

What you have become is the price you paid to get what you used to want.

Queen Margret II of Denmark

I have always had a dread of becoming a passenger in life.

Bill Cosby

I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody.

Sally Berger

You never saw a fish on the wall with its mouth shut.

IF by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain --and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

THE RAVEN by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door;--
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee,--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite,--respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!

Good Times

My wife took the initiative recently and texted an old associate of mine from my former job. She set us up to have a guys night.

We ended up hanging out together after all, after several days of planning via text. It's kinda weird, not talking to someone, yet instantly communicating with them through your phone. And you haven't spoken with them in over 6 months!

We saw Batman: Dark Knight. Again. That movie is SO intense, you just can't handle all it throws at you in one sitting. Or even two, apparently. It's like seeing L.A. Confidential or The Departed, only Batman has a part in it.

After that, we hung out at a bar. Had a few beers and such. Swapped war stories. Laughed our asses off. Had a good ol' time.

We almost didn't get to hang out, though. For the sake of redundancy, I'll write that story elsewhere:

The Offer

Murmurs

Currently my favorite Blog.

A recent excerpt:

Friday, July 25, 2008

In Fair Verona

“Well, goodbye, then."

He leaned forward as she stepped back.

"Later." She turned, aborting their waltz. “Thanks for walking me back. You really didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

Watching her take the stairs up to the apartment, he understood that, as her calculus tutor, his life was tangential to hers. His pull on her as weak as the moon’s gravity upon the sun. He believed he was okay with that. But today she pierced him with that gauzy skirt, not caring to conceal the razor burn on the legs beneath. Recollecting the intimacy of those small, angry bumps next to his knees, his hands curled into fists.

She paid him, damn it. To understand derivatives. Nothing more.

But there was something about a balcony that begged to be climbed.

“Juliet!”

Her key paused in the lock. She looked down in a manner that suggested she had already forgotten him. Feigning interest in the dumpster, he attempted a laugh. But he choked on the dirty air.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Just something stupid.”

She leaned her hips into the rail. “What?”

“Only . . . ”

“Jesus, Daniel.” She rolled her eyes, falling back into her sandals. “Spill it.”

“My friends, in high school.” His cheeks flamed. “They called me ‘Romeo.’”

She concealed a smile with her keys. “Oh?”

He shrugged. “They were being ironic.”

“Ah.”

He waited for anything else.

“I never really felt like a Juliet, you know.” With a key, she carved something into the rail, her hair spilling forward. “My parents were these romantic freaks, and I guess—”

She broke off.

“They thought you should be, too?”

“Yeah,” she said. “But it always kind of embarrassed me. People can make too many assumptions.”

“I know.”

She blew on her bangs and adjusted the strap of her bag. “Anyway.”

He lifted a hand, and smiled up at her. “Goodbye, then.”

She nodded and turned back toward the door. “See you on Thursday, Daniel.”

But something in her voice had turned soft. He had widened her circle by a degree, maybe two.

It was enough. He turned away, feeling the shadows of the day dissolve into night. Whistling, a little.

This was merely the balcony scene. He still had three more acts.

The Calm Before The Sand

Please read this man's blog. If not for yourself, do it for me. If not for me, you must do it for a veteran.

Endings and Beginnings

My real name is Seth. That is as good as you're going to get.

My name is Seth, and I am twenty-five years old. I come from a small town in rural Michigan, on the shores of Lake Huron. I am an aspiring writer. I consider myself a follower of Zen Buddhist philosophy. I have a wife of three years, whom I love very much. We have no children.

In the spring of 2004, I enlisted in the United States Army. At the time, the war in Iraq was still in its early stages, and I had a number of friends--some active-duty, some reserve--who were just coming home from their own stints fighting in the War on Terror. Why I joined, exactly, is hard to explain. Suffice it to say that I come from a long line of servicemembers, and that some part of me found myself lacking in not having partaken of the experience. Though I was always somewhat dubious about the true place of war in our society, some part of me felt guilt at seeing friends come home, bearing stories of a far-off place I had never seen. I felt guilt at not having shared their hardship. I found myself lacking for having not offered to share the burden.

So I joined. I enlisted in the Army Reserve, and in April of 2004 reported for Basic Training at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Fourteen weeks later, I reported to my Reserve unit, located in the Michigan city of Marquette. I was young--a new soldier, proud of myself and my service. For a year, I did my duty with honor. I relished the pride my occupation gave me, and even lamented the days when I would return home from drill weekends and go back to my civilian job.

For that first year, things were good. I did my job to the best of my abilities. I argued with my friends about the value of military service, even in a time of war. But something was missing. I still felt as though what I was doing wasn't quite enough. I became aware that friends of mine on the active side were currently serving in Iraq. Finally, following a long series of discussions with my then-fiancee, we agreed that action had to be taken. I put in a Request of Conditional release, and re-enlisted as an Active-Duty soldier. I married my wife, "Anne," in late June of 2005. Four days later, I reported for active-duty, and was promptly sent to Germany.

For a time after that, there wasn't much to tell. I received sponsorship for my wife, and she soon joined me overseas. For the next year, I served with my unit as a 21C (Bridge Crewmember), training to build, maintain and inspect all classes of military bridge. I also served with distinction as my unit's Tax Advisor. It was sometimes a stressful life, with long hours, but I didn't complain. When we received orders to deploy to Iraq in the summer of 2006, I was afraid, of course, but I did not object. I resolved to be strong for my comrades, and for my wife. I put my affairs in order as best I could, and after a brief stint home visiting my family, I said goodbye to my friends and loved ones, and prepared myself for war. I deployed to the Middle East in September of 2006, and soon found myself stationed at Logistical Support Area Anaconda, just south of Balad, Iraq.

At first, I did my best. I was scared at times, but we all were. I did my best to be a good soldier, and I served with honor at places like Gator Swamp, Baqubah, and Taji. I even tried to record my experiences, and show them to the world at this blog--my blog. At the time, I knew that strict restrictions were placed upon soldier-journalists, and so fearing that my liberties might be constrained, I chose to post under pseudonym. My nom de plume, Milo Freeman, soon became my nom de guerre. I was proud of all I was doing overseas, even though the fear and separation were difficult to deal with. I trusted in my friends, and I hope that they trusted in me. We relied on each other to come back safe, and in this bond we survived. We all survived.

However, such survival did not come without cost. Our hours were long, and our workloads strenuous. The demands of the modern environment in Iraq are brutal, and so on many occasions my friends and I labored on with bad equipment, with poor leadership, and without sleep. At first I thought I was just complaining too much, but little by little I began to see things that disturbed me: poor mission planning, corruption among the NCO corps, a command chain that openly neglected our families and denied us spiritual support. I watched friends be repeatedly denied access to spiritual and mental health resources, only to have those friends be later ostracized when the demands of war became too much. I walked in to find my friend Brooks carving on himself with a knife. I watched friends' marriages crumble, while leaders and commanders stood glibly by, doing nothing. I watched soldiers be LIED to, deceived about why they couldn't go see a chaplain.

And it only got worse. I deployed several months before the start of what we now call "The Surge," that extra boost of 30,000 troops intended to pacify the region. It was a joke, and we all knew it. Those extra troops were us, simply extended for another three months, on top of all we had already suffered. The blow to our collective morale was crushing. Meanwhile, the months wore on, and the situation outside the wire grew ever more stark. Mortar and small-arms attacks jumped, and soon insurgents began to target the very structures we were put in place to maintain: bridges. With only two companies in theater to deal with the offensive, and one of those handling 80 percent of the workload, our injury, illness, and mental collapse rates soon skyrocketed. Missions where we worked 70+ hours without sleep became routine. We were worked to the bone, and crushed into the dirt, and when we objected, we were scorned, or even punished. Leaders neglected our safety and health, even as injury and attrition rates skyrocketed to over thirty percent. Eventually, the job became more likely to kill us than the enemy.

And it got worse for me, too. As I mentioned before, I am a Buddhist. I believe in the impermanence of all things, and in the power of Compassion to end Suffering. It was in this belief that I entered the warzone. I was a builder of bridges, I told myself. I was a healer, I was a doer of good. I soon came to realize that I was not. Outside the wire, or in the tower, or on "haji-watch," I came to see an Iraqi populace brutalized by war. They were poor, and sick, and hungry, and every day their casualties came rolling into our hospitals. We were always told not to trust the Iraqis. We were told that they would use our goodwill against us. And they no doubt did. But my experiences with those people--hungry, belabored, staring at us with sunken eyes and baleful glares--spoke to my very spiritual charter. I had to help them, I thought. We had to help them. But time and time again, we heard the litanies. Do not buy, sell, or give items to local nationals. I stood silent as men, women, children, even soldiers begged me for food, for clean water to drink, for basic hygiene supplies. All the while, inside the wire, civilian contractors made quadruple my income, annually, to say nothing of what they made over the locals. When I struggled to find a spiritual outlet for the conflict of interest I saw here, I found that there existed none. There is no room for a Buddhist in today's military, no matter what the recruiters tell you. And worse yet, as I struggled to reconcile my spiritual conflicts with my duties, I found that I could not. I became lonely, angry, bitter. I began to grow disillusioned. What am I doing here, I asked myself? Is this justice? Is this Compassion?

As it turns out, it didn't matter. The months dragged on, and by May I found out that we had been extended. The leadership didn't trust us to tell our families: no, they told our families for us. The feeling of that phone call, of hearing Anne sobbing on the phone, made me want to scream and rage at my command chain. All this work, all the hours without rest, without sleep, and for what? Nothing changed in the Fertile Crescent. Insurgents attacked our bridges, we worked to restore them, only to have them destroyed again. Nothing changed, nothing got better, and all the while I found myself powerless to do anything to really help. People still died outside the wire, while inside people grew fat and rich. Soldiers still struggled, died, and watched their families collapse. And on the news? Nothing. A blurb on the ticker about Iraq, at most. The American people forgot about us; they saw what we went through and then changed the channel to American Idol. The only sign that they remembered us? An occasional package in the mail: snacks, hygiene supplies, crossword puzzles. I didn't know these people, and they didn't know me. An occasional halfhearted care-package effort from the American people, and then what? Nothing. Eventually, I began to throw these packages away, save those sent to me by my family. I left them in the day room, unopened, hoping someone might get some use out of them. I certainly didn't.

Time passed. The extension wore on, and things only seemed to get worse. An acquaintance of mine, Garrett Knoll, was killed by a truck-bomb explosion outside of his patrol base. He was two months into his deployment. Meanwhile, the stream of inane, worthless "news" coming from the States continued to bombard us here in Iraq, and with it came two revelations: 1) That Administration flacks were now threatening war with Iran, further endangering myself and my peers, and 2) That Democrats in Congress, having been elected on the promise of ending this miserable thing, this war of choice, this sham meant enrich old men's pocketbooks, had promptly caved on their stances. Nothing would change, I realized. Nobody wanted anything to change. All we were to the American people, I realized, were just pawns--heroes and sacrificial lambs, something to drum up a tear to swells of patriotic music. We were toys, bright and shiny, but when we came home broken or misused, we were forgotten. Meanwhile, I'd just gone three days in a row without sleep, and just found out I had a bridge recon in Baquba. Again.

I snapped.

I'll admit it--I was angry. I think anyone would be. This was not how I had imagined we would be used. But that was the truth of it: we WERE being used, used to wage a war that was pointless and cruel, and was only hurting my family and friends. We were being used to justify horrible things, and used as a symbol to silence dissent. So yes, I was angry. And with this journal, I vented my anger. I cried out my fear and bitterness, castigated the armchair warriors for glorifying what they didn't understand. I criticized the leaders who had forgotten us, and appealed to the American people for redress.

And how I was greeted? With scorn. I raised my voice against this thing, and what did I receive in return? Scorn and threats. Threats against my life, my family, and my military career. People told me I should be shot, told me I deserved to die, even as I served as a symbol of their right to say such horrible things. People even accused me of being a fraud, a liar, as if SURELY a soldier could NEVER say such things. It became so bad that I dreaded opening my inbox. The people HAD forgotten us, I realized. This was my country, my home, my people. Support the Troops, as long as they support the War. So much for free speech, so much for the right to dissent. Question the leaders, and be told you deserve to die. Very nice, America. I'm sure Thomas Jefferson would have been proud. But hey, who cares about all of that? Chuck Norris is coming to see us on Anaconda! Surely THAT will make everything better.

Eventually, I decided to stop blogging. It became too much: the harassment, the threats, the fear of being punished. I caved in to weakness and allowed my voice to be silenced, and I am ashamed of that, even now. Relish that victory, America, for it will not happen again. For a time, I put down the name of Milo and was contact to work on more personal projects. I wrote poetry, and began work on a novel for young adults, which I finished this past May. The time passed, the sentence ran out, and finally I was able to return home safely to my wife. We came home, safe in body if not in mind, and for a time all was good.

Except it wasn't.

Come home, and it's like somebody shut off the war. People go on with their daily lives, bitch about gas prices and secret muslims in the presidential race, while overseas people suffer and die, on both sides. People glance at the headlines, decide that "there's just too much bad news out there these days," and then shut us off. Well, guess what, America? Shutting it off doesn't make it go away. You can't just close your eyes and pretend that everything is fine. Not after every sin you've allowed to be carried out in your name.

And so it is, America. I have decided, after much careful searching, that this is it for me. My contribution to this effort is over. I am closing the blog. I am on Terminal Leave as we speak, and in a short time I will officially be a civilian once more. I will not be re-entering the service, and I will not be supporting the war any further, in any shape or form. I can't--not after all my friends and I sacrificed, for nothing. I will not stand by and feign pity at new names on the list of dead soldiers. I will not speak up about the glory of my service, about how "The Surge is Working." It isn't, it hasn't, and it won't. You cannot bring "freedom" to a people who don't want it exactly as you offer. Nor can you bring it as a token from people who would fight to deny us the same.

I'm done, America. This is it for me. It's been too much, for too long. Don't ask for me back, because you can't have me. And what's more, for every little yellow-magnet-sticker I see on the back of every SUV, I'm going to stop and turn those stickers upside down. You don't have the right to say you support our troops, not while my friends struggle with divorces, with alcohol, and with the demons in their own heads. Not while the VA conceals how many soldier suicides occur each month, or deny veterans access to the rights they FOUGHT to earn.

Do you understand me, America? I will not enable you anymore. I served, and I did my time with honor. Let that be enough. If you choose to ask for me back, you will not get me. You will not find me, and if by chance you should, you will find a very different man from the one who signed up a few years earlier. You will not deceive me again, and you will not deceive other young men and women on my watch. For every effort you make to spread the lie, for every poor soul you try to recruit, I will be there to undermine you. I want my country back, America, and there's no way I can get that unless I stand up and speak out. So here I am.

No more lies, America. No more apathy, no more sound-bites, no more lies.

I probably sound angry as I write this, but I'm not. If anything, I am sad, and disgusted, and ashamed that the honor I sought doesn't actually exist, save as a cheap trinket next to someone's license plate. Do you understand that? I am ashamed for having contributed to this, to an America whose Jesus looks like Chuck Norris, whose Buddha looks like Ronald Reagan. I cannot even trust my own family, should the callback letter come, not to sell me out. After all I have said, all I have written, the only son still matters less than the criminal war. You cannot imagine my disgust, my shame, my guilt.

Yes, America, you read that correctly: my guilt, guilt because of the fact that my friends are still over there. More of my friends will go back there, and there is nothing I can do to help them save that which I find unconscionable, unforgivable. And you know something, America? That guilt, I've learned, will never go away. Not for as long as I live. It is mine to bear, even as others die and people continue to tell me I deserve to die for what I believe.

So this is it, America. The end, and hopefully, a beginning. There will be no more Milo Freeman. From now on, there is only Seth: husband, brother, son, author, veteran. There is no more Milo Freeman here. That person is gone, and he will not be coming back.

For those of you who read me, fear not: I will not stop writing. I will continue to focus on my other projects, the ones that matter to me. You can still find me there, at the places I have listed above. Thank you, my fellow Americans, the faithful, the supportive. Your words gave me strength when I had none. I will carry your kindnesses with me always. As for the rest of you, America, well... don't bother thanking me for what I did. I did none of it for you.

Goodbye, America. Thank you for reading me. It has been an honor. I pray you find the strength to do what is right, and I pray that your friends and loved ones come home safely. There can be no peace before they do.

My name is Seth. I am twenty-five years old.

And I am Milo Freeman.

Antikythera Mechanism

New Light on the Antikythera Mechanism

In a paper to be published July 31, 2008 in the journal Nature, project members of the Antikythera Mechanism Research Project report on the latest discoveries about the writing on the dials and plates of the remarkable astronomical tool, the Antikythera Mechanism.

The Antikythera Mechanism is a curious mass of corroded metal, thin flat round bronze plates and gears with triangular teeth, marked with Greek letters and symbols. It was discovered in 1900 by sponge divers off the coast of the Greek island of Antikythera, within the remains of a shipwreck sunk ca. 50-80 BC.

Since the 1970s, various imaging techniques beginning with x-rays have been used to identify the gear configuration and reconstruct a working model. Beginning in 2005, the Antikythera Mechanism Research Project ramped up the imaging process, and they report today that they've been able to read the writing on the plates and dials. Among the things they've discovered is a dial on the back which is explicitly for tracking the Olympic games, illustrated in the computer reconstruction above.

Burial

I've discovered yet another blessing disguised as a curse, if you will. As any of you fellow bloggers pr'y know, if you start a draft on say, June 11th, and publish it on, say August 31st, it won't post at the top of the blog or archives list; it won't be listed amongst August's posts. It'll be listed in June's. It is effectively buried.

This is a minor inconvenience if you wished for that particular blog to get attention. Just Copy/cut, paste, delete. However, for the posts that are a bit outta the box, the ones you had to write but probably shouldn't have posted, it effectively buries them. That way, if say, only the three most current posts are listed on your main page, few other than you will know of their existence. Seriously, when reading someone's blog, either you're up to date, needing to only read the most recent two or three; or you're a new follower. In which case, how many of you have ever read more than four posts in a row on a new favorite blog?

The important thing to remember is to have a lackluster title. Not No Title, those will draw attention, especially if all else are titled. No numbers, either. They stand out too.

So, next time you're feeling a bit wary of your post, save it as a draft. It'll always be there. If you publish it later, you get the victory of burying some demon without the potentially unpleasant fallout.