Manifest Destiny

I am a little bit embarrassed to admit it, but I read Michael Moore's "Dude, Where's My Country" today. I found the book interesting; there were a couple valid points that deserve public scrutiny. But there were some things that unsettled me and helped me demarcate the limits of my liberalism. In condemning the president for using September 11th in vein, for example, Moore challenges Bush, claiming to be a "representative" of the casualties. If I die in Iraq, I do not want anyone to make a political statement out of my death. I need to say that again. If I die in Iraq, I do not want to be used as a martyr for political gain.

I fundamentally disagree with the way things are done in Iraq, and seeing them from the inside has only frustrated me to limits beyond the threshold of sanity. But there are things more important than how the decisions in Washington change my life and the lives of those around me. One of those things is my life. I am far more important to me than any one of those people who have control over me. My death here would be catastrophically cataclysmic to me in a singular way, even if my blood is on the administration's hands. But at that point, the meaning of my existence will be moot; ergo, so too will my death be meaningless.

In a less specific way, I found the book disquieting because it characterized the rabid zealousness that I had previously thought only existed on the ignorant side of American politics. I had to re-question my political bias, and found myself to be even more moderate than I had suspected. I really don't care for the things that go on in government, but I have been so adversely affected by them recently that awareness has been provoked out of my ambivalence.

I think a lot of people have been affected. I agree with Moore that the media has fed the public's insatiable appetite for fear with sensationalist drama. The dash for awareness by the ignorant in the wake of September 11th paved the way for legitimate news channels, for example, to make the transformation into broadcast tabloids. I'm sure a lot of people re-questioned their faith in our security and stability, but the fear was perpetuated each time they turned on their televisions. A lot of people have sought (and found) comfort in extremism- whether it be to the left or right. I wasn't the only person reluctant to put a campaign sticker on their car during the elections for fear that someone would vandalize it.

A heightened awareness of my mortality has leant me a great deal of perspective on the culture of fear spreading in America. We cannot begin to understand our irrational fears until we come to terms with the rational ones, and this experience has been an eye-opener in that respect. I find it remarkable that half a million of The Country's future leaders have shared my experience, and that they have seen the mechanism of flawed bureaucracy shed the blood of our countrymen half a world away. I know that if I die in Iraq, my life will have been meaningless. But I also know that I will be survived by a half million men and women who will carry on, despite me, despite Iraq, despite Moore and Bush and all of Washington. And that will be our legacy.

Baghdaddy

They have T-shirts that say "who's your Baghdaddy?" and people buy them. There is someone in The United States making thousands of dollars for coming up with that. I can't figure out which is worse: that they are manufactured or that they are purchased? The people that buy shirts like that are the same ones who come up to me at breakfast and say something about my drinking a non-alcoholic beer with my eggs: "A bit early to start boozin', isn't it?" I want to visit their minds and explore the mechanism of idiocy that reigns over all other functions.

I'm in Baghdaddy against my will. Back "home", I had taken a sick pleasure in the monotony of my routine and had become absorbed by the predictability of it. I observed a strict regimen of time discipline in an effort to combat boredom and occupy my mind. Just as my routine was nearing a perfection that approached becoming exalted, I was plucked from it and transplanted to the most dangerous city in the world for someone wearing The Stars & Stripes on their right shoulder.

Matters were only made worse by the fact that my host unit here is the Third Infantry Division. I'm IN the 3rd ID. There's no need to send me somewhere I'm infinitely more likely to get picked on for something. Our National Guard hosts in Tikrit are kind enough to leave us alone in deference to our status as regulars and as veterans. The base here is nice, but they stuck us in the only unairconditioned room in Iraq. It's in a condemned building that we bombed during the war. Plus, I had to meet with some acquaintances who are mostly of the "it's a bit early to be boozin', isn't it?" ilk. I don't wish any of them would die, per se; but I would be lying if I said I hadn't considered them for my list.

My traveling companions, on the other hand, are a very interesting collection. The Mormon who likes to touch his chest hairs is very pleasant company, and a healthy contrast to the girl whose twin has Down Syndrome and who took road trips at the age of fourteen with her friends in college. There's also the Memphis girl whose lieutenant is an utter idiot and goes on raids with the infantry armed with an anti-tank rocket. And, of course, the baseball fanatic whose rare words are so funny that they are worth framing in gold.

So, in the end, although rudely uprooted from the sanctity of my routine, I suppose some perspective was shed on my misery. Although people live much better in Baghdad (especially in "The Green Zone"), I wouldn't trade their lot for mine any day. Without knowing it, I have taken some solace under the National Guard. The sanity that comes with being around normal people who just happen to be wearing uniforms is comforting, even though I catch myself criticizing their lax ways sometimes. It's a hell of a lot better than being here. This isn't the same city I left in 2003. It's a hell of a place. Literally. It makes me wonder, who is my Baghdaddy?

Nailed

I don't remember who first pointed out that my name is an anagram of the word "denial", but I have been accused of it throughout my life. My earliest memories of my mother are of her telling me that I was in denial about one thing or another. In fact, I was so often blamed for avoiding reality, that I became convinced I couldn't discern it from what I thought was real.

This, though, isn't entirely a fabrication. I often find myself making excuses for the way I am by weaving complicated justifications, and through convoluted manipulations of logic and reason. It is how I convert an obstinate opinion into near-dogmatism.

Paradoxically, it is also the reason by which I can remain entirely objective on a subject. In order for me to construct a viable and believable alternative to reality, it is necessary to first gather as many facts about the truth as possible. Only by taking this crucial step will the mechanism be least likely to fall apart under scrutiny of The Absolute. Thus, although in a state of perennial denial, I am aware of reality and simultaneously constantly seeking to expand that awareness.

Buried somewhere in the last paragraph is an explanation to my current deep depression, extreme paranoia and defeatism. I live in a reality right now where there is no leaving Iraq alive. I am so convinced that my life after the Army with Holly will be so extremely happy that it has become impossible to comprehend. The chasm of differences between this reality and that one have led me to believe that there is no possible way they can exist simultaneously. The only way to resolve their coexistence is to come to terms with the fact that I will not survive this one. The death of a very close friend in Iraq last year was the nail on the coffin of denial.

In a bid to defeat a defense mechanism flawlessly constructed from the finest counterlogic, I am having to produce some poignantly decisive and conclusive truths. An unfortunate side-effect of tearing down an artificial reality, though, is coming to terms with the things it was built to protect against. Lately, a torrent of memories of the first war have been infiltrating my subconscious in dreams and in my waking thoughts. I have developed an infatuation with death, and have tortured myself of memories from the war.

I hope to come to terms with the suppressed memories and deal with my fear of death. Most importantly, though, I want to believe that I am going to survive Iraq. I want to believe that there will be a day when I will not be in the Army, and I want to believe that I will see Holly again. But tonight, I don't believe in anything. Tonight, I am Daniel of Denial.

Insomnia

I have been job-hunting lately. The urgency is pressing since I am supposed to have gotten out of the Army a long time ago. However, due to my situation, I haven't the remotest idea when that will really be. Before we left, we were told to expect a twelve to eighteen month rotation. They are allowed to force me to stay in the Army up to ninety days after our return, but they can also cut me loose at any time after we get home. The way it adds up right now, I could get out of the Army anywhere within a NINE month window. Why would anyone hire someone who doesn't know their availability date within three quarters of a year?

A lot of people don't understand freedom. I didn't understand what it is before I became stop-lossed. I know now, though. There is something that the Army has taken away from me; something beyond what detention and incarceration could take. They have taken away hope. Without a date by which to plan my future, I can't have hope for it. I have received letter after letter from employers wishing me the best, but politely telling me my situation compromises my competitiveness.

Although it isn't their fault either, there are soldiers in The United States who have never been deployed and are far more desirable candidates than I, simply because they know when their contracts expire. Soldiers, I add, who have served less time than I because they weren't in a unit that was stop-lossed. I know life isn't meant to be fair, but it doesn't have to be this unfair.

There are people who have the power to change things without compromising our capabilities. But there is no motivation. The public outrage is minimal, and there is no reason to placate a group of soldiers who are committed to leave the Army anyway. I have been thinking about Vietnam and how it created a generation of resentment for the government, but I think there was a different culture of global awareness that transcended the sensationalism of a media saturated with stories of runaway brides.

When I think of the draft, I think of the people who have been even more outraged by the Army's free-for-all personnel grab. Those who had honorably left the service for civilian life, but had been recalled to active duty, for example. I know they have voices too, and I hope they are being heard. I am used to not making my voice heard; I have been doing it all my life. But I know how to choose my battles.

I was asked today if I would ever consider public office. I would were it not for my mistakes in the past. Although the government may be willing to overlook interstate check fraud as a fifteen year-old's mistake, I think public opinion would be far less understanding. All the same, I have been kicked too many times to stay down. I know I'm not the only one who feels the agony of betrayal, and I am always excited each time I hear people whisper about change.

And whispering is a start. I think there is a vast majority of Americans who, baffled at the insanity that takes place on both extremes of the political spectrum, remain somewhat inactive. It is wild to think of the centre being motivated by much, since war and runaway brides have obviously done nothing to shift it's massive bulk. But when it does start rolling, the momentum will be contagious. Since I have been forbidden hope for myself, I surrender it instead to The Dormant Nation.

Queen of The Harpies

The computer hovel is a nasty little dungeon with no windows. It has some makeshift dividers upon which are hung some various signs, cautioning the user not to spread classified information and rules governing how the hovel is run. Some dividers also sport the trendy Lappeus Funeral Home calendars (see Timely Death, April), which have since had their names covered. Recently, a new addition has been made. "The Maid Has Not Been Deployed" signs have appeared, encouraging the user to not leave empty water bottles behind.

I like wit. I enjoy humor. There is tremendous room in my life for more comedy. What there is not room for are people who think they can fill that void, forcefully applying their inane dullness on the world. This is especially true when the perpetrator is a tiny, wrinkled, old woman who is bitter and mean.

The guardian of the computer dungeon is a troll who glares at intrepid users brash enough to cross the threshold it watches over like a hawk. In appearance, it is identical to one of the Skexies in Dark Crystal. Each day, I must build the courage to infiltrate the hovel, hoping I do not catch it's gaze. I have yet to succeed. It is so vehemently protective of the computers, I am convinced it is plotting to start charging people passage.

In the regular army, younger people tend to populate the lower ranks, and vice-versa for upper echelons. Serving for the first time in my career under the National Guard has been educational. People many decades my senior are the same rank as I, or even my junior! The troll is an example of the extreme. It is well past fifty, and shares my status and salary.

I have only had one brief encounter with the troll, and I barely escaped with my life. I was caught after having illegally plugged my own laptop into the internet a couple weeks ago. No words were exchanged, though, and I continued to blatantly violate the rules. I suppose it was my victory, but it will only be a matter of time before I'm sucked into a more serious conflict fueled by contempt. The troll violates all sorts of rules, especially those concerning uniform. When corrected, she will mumble something about being too old for helmets and guns.

TOO OLD? Really, now. If she's too old, then I'm too bitter. And he's too fat. And she's too blonde. We might as well just roll up the whole thing right now and call it quits because the troll doesn't want to wear her helmet. Too old. Good grief. You can't tell me this creature is really in the Army. I think she is a Skexies looking for that last shard.

Horses FAQ

I've noticed it's been some time since I've added anything new here. I tried over the weekend, but a sandstorm knocked out satellite reception, and the internet ran superslow for what seemed like ages. Some nights later, I was on my way to the computer hovel when, out of the blue, The Insects came. One went up my nose, and the other into my ear. With my orifices thusly assaulted, I felt the only way to combat such an offense was to retreat to the sanctity of my sleeping bag. Then, too, I've been distracted throughout the week by the X-Box Holly sent.

Also, Cinco de Mayo was this week. I'm not one to invest significance in dates and anniversaries, but as a closet alcoholic, this one has a special home in the foggier portions of my memory. On that day six years ago, for example, I won a habanero eating contest, sang karaoke at a country western bar, and had my car stereo stolen outside a gay disco all before midnight. So, that helps explain why I have been remiss in updates. Somehow.

Now to business. As a nonpartisan blog, I have been receiving a LOT of partisan mail. Most of it supportive, but some of it very, very nasty. I would like to address some of the more constructive questions here. If you have any of your own, please feel free to add them in the appropriate forum below. Here we go.

1) Why "All The King's Horses"? Who are the horses? Who's the king?It was never meant to be obvious, but I foolishly took for granted the intuition of others. "All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty together again" is the last line to the nursery rhyme "Humpty Dumpty". The name is a metaphor for those of us who have been given the task of rebuilding Humpty. The monarch is the reigning dynastical leadership whose throne is adorned with the blood of the innocents. It may refer to a particular person, but for the purposes of this forum, we shall say not.

2) But who or what is "Humpty Dumpty" a metaphor for, then? Ask again when you get your GED.

3) Aren't you in Iraq? Why don't you ever talk about stuff getting blown up or the politics there?This blog is not meant to be partisan. If I were to discuss politics openly and honestly, I would face reprisals from within the military. As for Iraq. Yes, it sucks being here. Things blow up all the time and people get killed literally on my doorstep every day. I am very deep in denial, though. I'm only willing to admit I'm here on very superficial levels. In other ways, though, each time I write an entry, it is my way of coming to terms with reality. Although I often start out a blog with "today, stuff blew up and I was scared", it ends up as a story from childhood, or an abstraction of emotions. If you want to read about how stuff got blown up and whatnot, there is a MilBlogs webring navigator on my site. I checked some of those sites out, and they'll be right up your alley.

4) Why don't you update your blog every day?It's usually because I'm polishing my Nobel Prize or working on my thesis to solve world hunger.

5) You speak of "forbidden" subjects. What are they and why can't you discuss them?I have extremely... passionate opinions about the Army in general, and stop-loss in specific. As much as I would like to express those feelings very, very much, I can not. If they were tributes to the excellence of my commanders in the field and the generals at home, I could speak all day. Because of the nature of my feelings, however, I can not say a word without feeling the wrath of reprisal.

6) You have an incredible girlfriend. Why don't you write about her all the time?Maybe I do and you're just not invited.

7) I want to buy you one of those cool shirts you keep talking about. Where can I find a link?Again, I was a fool for assuming intuition in others. The highlighted words in the text are actually links. Click here to see an example. You can send white shirts. Orders for brown have been filled. I'm a large. My address can be found here. More I ask not for. Not yet, anyway. If this was an issue for you, please write back and I'll put together an "I've just awoken from a deep and mysterious sleep that has spanned the last decade and need a refresher on what's happened, please" survivor's guide to the internet.

8) Your awesomeness has inspired me to worship you in all your magnificence. Can I please send you everything I own as tithings to appease you, oh great and masterful one?Yes.

That's all. If you still have hate mail, please address it to my M16. It's been itching for something to do lately.