shark don't eat me

2007-02-15T18:06:00.000-08:00

I try. I try really hard. Maybe not all of the time, but when I do, it's balls-fucking-out.

And still I am shat upon, by everyone. Even those I love.

What the fuck am I supposed to do, when so much is out of my hands?

Work with me here.....................

2007-02-07T20:10:00.000-08:00

Awww, dude!!! We're in trouble now..... Here come YN3!!!!!

2007-01-14T12:40:00.001-08:00

I drinks the beers and my tummy hurts. :(

Now I gotta pee. And poop. A lot.

Owwwieee..........

2007-01-06T05:35:00.000-08:00

When I was 11, I used to watch my neighbor's dogs while he was off on business trips. He paid me in brownies and Red Hook. No cash, just food.

Cheapass.

2007-01-02T17:56:00.000-08:00

WE'RE ALL GOING TO HEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!

i loves you, Roz.....and Vinnie...and Mom.....and Pop......

2007-01-02T09:39:00.000-08:00

Join the Navy....join the Naaaavvveeeee.....do it.....

You know you wanna.

2006-11-19T19:56:00.000-08:00

Ugh.

I loves my wife.

I hates my job.

Ugh.

2006-11-19T19:50:00.000-08:00

You know what blows? You know what absolutely fucking blows? Wanting to go to sleep, having a place to go to sleep, having perfect silence, absolutely needing sleep, and not being able to sleep.

Well, not perfect silence. A certain fellow BM2 keeps calling the office. It's 2230. Why aren't you in bed, jackass? We muster at 0445. 0445!!! And we don't secure until we're done. We're looking at a 14, maybe 16 hour day, for the next week out, and this dumb fucker wants to conversate. No. Denied. I got the midwatch. So I need what little sleep I'm getting. And you, you lantern-jawed Texan with the undecipherable slur, you are robbing me of my precious, precious powernap.

Damn you to hell. No....fuck you.

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

fuckers are ruining my high...........

2006-11-19T15:21:00.000-08:00

tee hee.....

2006-11-17T10:16:00.000-08:00

What the fuck?!??

That's all I wanna know. What the fuck, world? What the fuck?

2006-10-23T02:30:00.000-07:00

My. Back. Hurts.

2006-10-18T18:50:00.000-07:00

I am over-motivated. And excessively dedicated.

And I'm comfortable with that. It works for me....

2006-10-15T09:24:00.000-07:00

My wife has duty. And I'm home alone. With Vinnie. And his gums hurt. And he's taking it out on me.

Forehead rubs and powernaps, kids. Forehead rubs and powernaps.

2006-10-10T18:54:00.000-07:00

All you immature bastards who rock Anti-Flag while driving your mom's car to the punk rawk show- knock it the fuck off. It's irritating.

And Anti-Flag blows. Instead of taking a stand against our nation as a whole, why not exploit the potential for good that lies in each and every American?

And you kids - quit letting all these cookie-cutter ass bands make up your minds for you. If God wanted you to think like your favorite band, he woulda put you in the band and removed your brain. But he didn't. So go. Think. Mull thing over. Reach your own damn conclusion.

And always keep this little tidbit in the back of your mind - only in the U.S. can you call your band Anti-Flag, shit on the troops and make major-label releases while doing it. They don't let you do that in other countries. You know why? Because as fucked up as we are, we're still better.

2006-10-10T17:32:00.000-07:00

bm2 say grr.....grrrrr...

Intrusive leadership is a relatively new concept that the Navy is propagating among the E-7 and above caste. The thrust is this - know what your sailors are doing, at all times, and get involved. Direct them. Guide them. Mentor them.

On it's face, it seems like something long overdue. Something that needs to be standardized, taught, and used aggressively. But the fact that this has become a leadership tool tells me that the Navy, instead of pushing responisbility downwards, into the E-4 and below groups, is consolodating it. It's rapidly getting to the point where us blueshirts will have no credibility. It seems to me that my beloved Navy has lost it's faith in the very men and women who form it's backbone - young, motivated, idealistic men and women, who, through a few bad choices made by a minority of servicemembers. How are my subordinates supposed to stay motivated when they have their judgement questioned every day? I think we ought to return to the rough and tumble days of the pre-1996 Navy, when a Third Class had clout and and Second Classes ran the decks free of interruptions, when the BM1s and Chiefs could do what they needed to do knowing the the ship was in good hands. But no......that would be too easy. Gone are the days of the "Sea Daddy" and the trusty shaleleigh.

two steps forward, one jillion steps back...... grrrr......

2006-10-06T04:47:00.000-07:00

In the U.S. Navy, we call it a dewski. Or jihad beer.

i have this huge crush on mountain dew.....

2006-10-06T04:30:00.000-07:00

It's Friday. My day off. And I'm at work. Before the duty section. So I can escort the new CO and his family around the forecastle. And the messdecks are closed. So I can't get coffee. To sum up ;

I NEED SOME FUCKING COFFEE.

2006-09-24T21:07:00.000-07:00

Why does this remind me of my wife? Is it 'cus she can kick my ass ten times over before dawn?

i loves Roz supermuch.......

2006-09-24T20:35:00.000-07:00

Entirely too many things going through my head at one time, at times when I need to be at ease and resting. Making me extremely mad at myself for being unable to regulate what occur in my own head. Super ultra mad. Is this normal?

You have kids? I always feel guilty as hell when I go out and do something and leave my son at home with mom. Mom needs rest and Vinnie needs playtime with dad. But as my passion for a certain hobby has been rekindled, I wonder - is that normal? Do I get a life of my own, or is it Vinnie 24/7 until he can cook the mac and cheese himself?

I wonders....

2006-09-19T02:35:00.000-07:00

My wife is this close to declaring jihad on her workplace. And I support that. Because from what I understand and have observed, the place is staffed by the barely-mediocre and the mildly retarded. Go, Roz, go!!!!

2006-08-31T18:41:00.000-07:00

This is the first and last time you will ever hear me say this, so listen up. I will not repeat myself-rarely do I badmouth the insititution to which I have pledged my loyalty.

However.....

The ship I am currently on, USS Carl Vinson, is pissing me off. Chuckie V is the sole reason my stress levels are so ridiculously high. Allow me to explain - the Navy is a unique branch of the military, in that our primary job as Sailors is simply to support and operate equipment. Whereas Soldiers and Marines train for direct engagement with enemy forces, we perform maintenance and drill with systems designed to be delivered to the enemy from the sea. So, we clean, maintain and operate the ships, which deliver the delivery systems (jets, helos, cannon, torpedo tubes, missile launchers, etc.), which then deliver the destructive components. So when we are not out to sea, we troubleshoot and drill.

But my particular ship is in the yards. Almost all systems, form basic power and plumbing, to the reactor, rudders, screws, radar, steam catapaults, etc. are gutted or removed entirely. So we have a mass of empty spaces with nothing to fix. And so, we clean. It's the only thing left. All we have now are appearances, since performance is nearly irrelevant at this time. And people clean. But the civilians on board are constantly working, cutting, grinding, rigging, welding, wiring, staging, priming, blasting, painting, torching, etc. So.... what is the Goddamn point of trying to create Nevr-Dull miracle spaces out of compartments that will only be shit upon the very next day? What about a minimum standard? Revamped inspection criteria, to make room for error? Some Goddamn fucking common fucking sense and...and....I dunno. Something.

Grown men getting the blood pressure up over some dust and candy wrappers.

UGH.

2006-08-28T02:34:00.000-07:00

It is 0528. Been at work for forty minutes now.

WHY DOES THIS COMMAND INSIST ON STARTING THE WORKDAY AT THE FUCKING ASSCRACK OF DAWN? THE SHIPYARD WORKERS AREN'T WORKING - WHY ARE WE?

2006-07-30T18:56:00.000-07:00

Death can no longer carry the scythe
A benevolent white sickle
Pushing a soft song through not-yet gold wheat

Death is an outstretched hand
and soul-soothing lies
A cool canteen in the desert, whose sand tastes like hot iron
rubbed against the throat

Death is the trail that leads you
out of faceless eastern woods
and into a plain, warm

In which can be heard
the swish, swish
of a golden white sickle.

2006-07-22T19:58:00.000-07:00

This is where I work. I say that 'cus it's a fucking shipwreck.

Seriously. Check it out at http://www.cvn70.navy.mil/

2006-07-22T19:46:00.000-07:00

Here's what I need from whoever can make this happen -

I want a bar. Not just any bar - a quiet bar. With good, soft lighting. A dark stained wood floor, one pool table and a clean, mid-size bar with good American and select European beers on tap. And in place of the fancy rack of funky candy-colored liquours, a little rack of core American liquours, with some imported mainstays. And no funky, faggoty metrosexual-ass drinks like appletinis or Goddamn fuzzy navels.

For clientele, I want working folk. And not the dumb, young, unskilled guys that you find these days. Craftsmen, union joes, veterans, people who take pride in their trade. And no college kids, no prty-hardy types, none of that.

And no booming-ass music, neither. A jukebox. With decent sound and a cultured collection, built around a core of Johnny Cash and Hank Williams tunes. Music that will work, not whine.

I want a quiet little bar with a sunny parking lot and a nice, simple patio and experienced courteous staff and people who I want to drink with. A place where I can take my prematurely aged ass and just sit down.

Because I really wanna sit down and take a break, dammit.

So if you all could make this happen, I would appreciate it.

I'm looking at you, Donohoe. You actually get a paycheck...

2006-07-22T19:41:00.000-07:00

Lemme put this out, too. While I'm here and woke.

Why do people hate on the Pope and the Vatican? It is a pleasant place full of pleasant people, and the Pope is a lot nicer than most people you'll meet. And I guarantee you backwoods anti-papists that he is not the Anti-Christ.

He's actually quite nice.

Go find someone else to hate on. You all are pissing me off. But I gotta make nice, 'cus I'm Catholic.

You can't see it, but this polite smile is fake as shit. I'm actually pissed as hell.

2006-07-22T19:27:00.000-07:00

Lemme put this out, while I'm at it.

I loves my wife.

2006-07-22T19:07:00.000-07:00

Israel. Pissing me off.

This is my new favorite stress-inducing topic. Am I the only who gets pissed off when Israel gets away with blowing the shit out of another country with zero consequences?

I understand that Israel has the right to exist-that is a basic fact and cannot be debated. I also understand their right, nay, need for a robust capacity for self-defense. But the first-strike pattern that Israel has adopted is inexcusable. Here is a country that is in essence a thoecracy with universal compulsory military service. This and the plethora of reserve forces for citizens who are not of military age strikes me as over the top. I don't think this is right. No military can function succesfully with manpower that is culled from the populace and forced to serve, vice a motivated and professional volunteer force. It is a fact that drafting personnel creates a military with a mindset that permits and overlooks wartime atrocity. This, combined with the never-ending flow of sophisticated arms and training tools and methods coming from the United States seems like a one-sided vendetta against the bulk of the Islamic nations (which are also primarily theocracies and also rely on compulsory military service.) What is the motivation? Self-defense? Or the eradication of any and all possible threats? What of the civilians? They did nothing to deserve this, save being Lebanese(which is not a crime in any way, dammit). In essence- it ain't fair. And is that not the goal of the world community, especially the diplomatic/political community? A measure of fairness that benefits all mankind? Military methods are the last resort. Always.

What I'm basically getting at is this - why does Israel feel the need to pummel it's neighbors? Because these operations will inevitably involve her allies in some way, shape, or form, and that ally, indirectly, by way of some DoN forms, is me. And I, being a well-trained, well-qualifed, motivated military professional will eventually be called on to do something that we all know just ain't right. I joined to become a better person and do something that would benefit the nation and the world as a whole. I did not join to do shady shit to benefit men who have no concept of the sacrifices myself and my shipmates make. I alsow did not join to star in my son's history textbooks, under the heading "World War 3." Am I overreacting? Maybe. But dammit, more people need to be worried about this - no, not worried, pissed. Pissed and doing something. Preferably somehting constructive and proactive.

However, before any NCIS cats read this and decide that my Navy days are over, allow me to say this - I have not, and do not plan to refuse any lawful order given to me. If they cut me orders and tell me to land some jarheads, or drive an LCU and put ass in the grass, then okay. I'll do it. And I'll do it to the best of my ability.

But Goddamn, I won't be happy about it.

So now that I've wandered off-topic and written myself into a corner, allow me to say this - stop bombing each other. Everyone. There is a time and a place when war is appropriate, but this - this ain't it. I cannot find the motivation for this destruction. It would be so easy to do the adult thing and admit past fault, while working toward future stability. Whose side are you all on, anyway? Who authorized this bullshit? And why is the UN, potentially the most powerful body of nations ever seen, with the collective strength of the mightiest navies and armies, sitting in meetings with collective thumbs in ass? Meetings do not solve problems. Meetings cause headaches and make folk sleepy.

Makes me sick. Sick and fucking tired. There are better things we all could be doing.

2006-07-15T00:33:00.000-07:00

67 countries have said it, and now I'ma say it too.

Israel-yes, you. Don't look over there, look here. Yes, at me. Now...

QUIT FUCKING AROUND.

I know you're fucked up. Everyone else knows you're fucked up. So when are you going to unfuck yourself and quit with the commando bullshit? Knock this shit off. Or I'm putting you in time out.

2006-07-14T14:16:00.000-07:00

It has come to my attention recently that there is entirely too much stress in my life, and that it's mostly my own damn fault for putting it there. So, as an excercise in stress management, here is a list of things that piss me off;

- Men with bad haircuts. This pisses me off on a daily basis-why do grown men feel that they can walk around with long, greasy, untamed hair, or, worse, military men who let their hair grow up and out, outside of regulations.

- The dress-shirt and jeans fad. A dress shirt, to me, can only be worn one way-tucked the fuck in to the trousers. Letting your shit hang out is slovenly and makes you look like a Goddamn idiot.

- Flip flops. You wear them on the beach, Around the house. Or in the shower. You do not, under any circumstances, wear them outside, running errands, or to your job. Esepcially if your job is waiting tables. What the fuck?

- Adults who cannot bring themselves to shave in the morning. You look like trash. Fix yourselves.

- Driving without signalling/driving on the phone. You all can go to hell. Now. You'll get there faster if you hang up.

- People with dependents who spend money on frivolous material goods vice saving and investing wisely. You bastards owe your families first, then yourselves. Rims and speakerboxes will not keep your children in diapers. Nor will they pay the rent.

- Overweight females who dress "sexy." It's not sexy. It's fucking gross. Go reclaim your dignity.

- Anyone with dental ornamention. If God or the dentist didn't put it there, it don't belong there. Get it the fuck our of your mouth. I can't understand what you say.

- Anyone who constantly asks to borrow small amounts of money. Especially immediately after payday. You got paid. Get off your ass and go get some cash. Or just save it. But don't ask me for my money.

- People who constantly insert themselves into your conversations, even though they have no fucking clue what the conversation is about. This also applies to you sons of bitches who keep trying to start coinversations by spitting the same line out every three seconds. It's fucking annoying. If I want to talk to you, I'll come talk to you. Wait until I do. Don't jump the fucking gun.

- Anyone who uses payday loans. You deserve to get fucked up and pay far, far out the ass for your mistakes. And don't tell me about them. Keep them to yourself.

- People who can't get to work on time. Ever. Stop making excuses, go to bed earlier, and wake up earlier. It's not hard, jackasses.

- Sailors, soldiers, Marines, Airmen who wear uniforms that are too large or too small. You don't look cool-you're a Goddamn fire hazard. And you look fucking retarded.

- Anyone who goes out drinking on a weeknight. What the hell? Friday will come. It has always come, and it will continue to come. Just sit tight, dammit.

- People who wear do-rags in public. Go inside. And stay there.

- People who work in industrial settings, but refuse to take off their fancy watches. I hope your whole hand gets took off by a big ass machine.

- Anyone who refuses to do a job which they volunteered for. Rest assured, I will kick your ass. Just let me find you.

- Anyone who considers themselves a gangster, but is in fact NOT a gangster. In fact, anyone who tries to be something they ain't. You suck at life. Quit wasting your time and energy trying to convince me. Got fix yourselves.

-Desk clerks, cashiers, waiters, and bartenders who refuse to get ogff the phone while serving me. IT CAN FUCKING WAIT.

- Anybody with a large-ass truck that never gets used for chores or hauling. You are wasting precious fuel and steel, and you should be shot dead.

- Guys with riding lawnmowers and really small lawns. Go die, you bastards.

- Anyone in really baggy pants. Die.

-People who wait until the last minute to take care of vital business. You are all fucking yourselves, and should not be allowed to complain in any way, shape or form. Nor should you be granted any leniency. You should be hung. In public. Along with everyone else on this list.

- Anyone who claims that soccer and swimming are not sports. You can't play soccer. Nor can you swim. So you are not qualified to pass judgement.

- College kids with Che Guevara t-shirts or pro-Communist logos. You motherfuckers have no idea how destructive and evil Communism is. You should be shipped off to some bombed-out Eastern European nation, to experience first-hand the fallout of the Soviet collapse and reverberations that are still felt there. Or China. China sucks right now.

That's part of the list. There's more, but I should stop.

2006-06-04T14:51:00.000-07:00

So I got promoted. To Boatswain's Mate 2d Class.

I have this creepy urge to tie a knot.....

2006-04-01T18:11:00.000-08:00

Abandoned steel and cracked hard plastic
chinstraps torn and boots fulla sand
17 year old boys trying to make it over the berm
up the hill and back to the bar
Rusted rifles and trucks that won't run
Freezing your ass off under the sun
Try to keep living under the gun
Until you wake up and realize you can't
so run, run, run.

2006-03-22T05:03:00.000-08:00

USN is SEATO code for CLUSTERFUCK.

Observe.

2006-03-16T16:01:00.000-08:00

Little kids are fucking brutal.

I saw some 6 year old kids chasing some 40 year old dude down the sidewalk yesterday afternoon.

They were throwing Goddamn dirt clods at the poor bastard.

Brutal little shits. I stay inside from now on.

2006-02-04T06:24:00.000-08:00

Extreme conditions require extreme responses.

So live. Until you die.

2006-01-11T06:12:00.000-08:00

Do you even know who I am?

Perhaps I should introduce myself.

My name is Kevin Diebold. I don't generally use my first name, though. Only good friends and family are really allowed to. I don't know why, but it's been that way since middle school. I just prefer the distance that one maintains when using the last name. It's a way of keeping people out of my way, where I want them.

I am 19. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------. When I was a few years younger, I was heavily interested and involved in leftist politics-I saw it as a way to spark change in my country. When I was 16 or 17, though, I realized that it was very difficult to reconcile my intense love for my country and the ideals that fathered it and the organizations and individuals, both on the left and right, that so vocally champion said ideals. I think once you've been inside, or even regularly exposed to any group with strong political motivations and aspirations, you are granted a sort of x-ray vision-one that allows you to, with superhuman precision and clarity, see and eventually sort out the bullshit that is being pumped, spouted, and spewed at and around you. And so, I am no longer interested in politics, unless it directly involves me and my family. It rarely does- we are simply crushed by the detritus, like so many other Americans. And so, I have no politics- I am simply fed up, and too tired to do anything about it.

I am in the military. My love for America, no matter how fucked up, my need for independence, and my desire to serve led me first to the Army(who wouldn't have me), then the Navy. It took me about 6 months after graduating boot camp to become completely and totally disillusioned. It still startles me sometimes, the admiration people have for those of us in the military. We are viewed as heroes, as freedom's guardians, and I believe that is true for a a small minority, those who are motived, either by ideal or by self-preservation, to go above and beyond. But for the ten percent who make up the proud and skilfull, the dedicated and steadfast, there still remains a surplus of shitbags, ignorant, arrogant young men and women with a smug sense of entitlement who use the military as an elaborate and reliable system of welfare, who imagine themselves to be gangsters and pimps beholden to no one, not even the iron claws of the mighty Navy. Ultimately, they are disharged, less than honorably, and we who remain are left with the mess.

I guess I fall into the ten percent, but only because of my hatred of the ninety percent. Or maybe I'm just average, the last average serviceman, not exceeding by any great amount, but still somewhat dedicated, easily tricked into staying late and showing up early. I guess that's it. I just don't want to see myself as a shitbag.

It is just too easy to fail, and so hard to achieve, especially in the military, where the cream rises ever so slowly, while the crap is on the fast float to the top of the mug.

I have a girlfriend, whom I love dearly, madly, etc. I also have a child on the way, and I couldn't be happier, and, at the same time, more anxious. Already, my kid is antisocial, silently and unobtrusively developing in the womb, sucking it's thumb and generally making nice with mom and me. I worry, often and intensively, about my future, and by extension, my child's future. I have no degree, and the structure of today's economy, culture, and society makes my getting one a dim dream at best. I desperately fear poverty, and I don't want to join the ranks of Americans who work their asses off, sixty-odd hours a week, for peasant wages. It always bothers me that those of us who work the hardest, rising at two or three in the morning to haul our asses to the shipyards and machine shops and garages and trainyards and piers of this great nation, are paid so miserably for our efforts. But I am too tired to do anything about it, except to rise before dawn every day and get on the bus to go to work. And I suppose it will be like this for many years, until some silver bullet presents itself and I am saved. Or I die. Whichever comes first.

It didn't have to be like this, I guess, and it don't have to stay that way, either. But I am so tired of everything, especially the ever present bullshit, which permeates everything. It is a constant frustration, a never-ending series of plans gone awry and things just not working the way they were intended to, systems devouring themselves and taking their workforces with them, and it make me mad. But not mad enough to do anyhting about it, except clock in at 5 am and clock out at 4 pm.

It's probably my fault, a long series of small, misguided decisions that started with me shaving my head nine years ago and continuing on, leaving me lying here, in a cold bed, under the eyes of rank after rank of meddlesome, useless persons who got it right and won't help me get unfucked.

That is me. That is who I am. And that is how I will remain.

Oh well. Everything will end or change, eventually.

2006-01-07T11:43:00.000-08:00

even wolves hid their teeth

2006-01-07T11:39:00.000-08:00

ci muoviami come i fantasmi
come i giovani silenziosi,
denominati soldati
e noi muoia come glie che si sbiad
senza majestico.

My Italian is horrible. My English is suffering, too.

2006-01-03T09:16:00.000-08:00

I am standing in a place that is bordered on three sides. Behind me is a birch forest. I cannot see it, but I know it is very deep. To my right is a small village, decrepit. The houses are made with clay and driftwood from a very distant shore, painted white. The roofs are made of birch slats that are bloated, morbid with rainwater. The windows are covered, permanently, with timber and rotted rags. The chimney are crooked, or they have fallen over, or they were never there in the first place. Dark green things grow in the streets, rich forest loam converging on the hard-packed dirt. The things have a smell, a moist mushroom on a dark morning. It coats the nostrils and throat. The smell makes me sick. I hate the smells of rain.

In front of me is a small hill, not even a hill. The wind has dried this hill, and the grasses are bright green, robust. The wind makes them dance, and they sing in rustle. Flowers shelter in their midst. There is no smell, only sound and breeze. To my right is soft white sand. I can see it, and it stretches forever, leading me to places I do not want to see anymore, places where the sounds were so loud and harch, they became soft, and my ears were weak with the ringing. In this place, everything is seen through sounds. The eyes find everything offensive here, the bright luminescent flash of grenades melting the color out of the streets and buildings, until everything became dun, tan, and white. Everything is covered with thin, gritty dust. It makes everything hopeless. Everything is unhappy. Animals low and shriek-they are always dying, blood pouring from beggin eyes and pleading mouths. The bones of horses lie in splinters everywhere, and camel's teeth sit in the road. The dust turns the blood brown. Everything is dun, tan, white, and brown. I couldn't hear footsteps, and so I never knew if we were running or walking. We ran, until running became walking. We hung our heads, to avoid seeing. And even then, the ground taunted us, with sand and offal.

I will climb over the hill. And I do.

Behind this hill is a beautiful city, medieval, bright red and deep brown houses leaning together, the roofs made of stone and tile and wood. The streets were cobblestone, crooked and ancient, refelcting the setting sun at their crowns. Trees struggled upward, between houses and next to statues, displacing the cobble and wending around the stone. Church spires shot into the sky, spearing the clouds and lacerating the smoke that blew through the skies. Beyond the city lay the ocean, and I knew it was the deepest ocean ever. It was the place were the salt water met the sweet, that if I sailed far enough into it's expanse, I would find something to make the world beautiful. I turned to look at the wood behind me, the village, and finally, the desert. My heart was glad.

I returned my eyes to the city, and it was in silent flames. The night became red as it crumbled upon itself, a pile of embers by the sea.

The village rotted into nothing, the roofs splayed out on the foul mud. The rags had rotted away, and broken jugs lay in the streets.

The forest was dark, unspeakably dark, the birches sick, bent with disease and dying.

So I returned to the desert, where all water tastes of blood and sweat, where we are blind and deaf and tired, marching on and on on our feet, cracked and swollen and too infected to bleed. And I remained there.

2005-12-30T11:04:00.000-08:00

-untitled-

Emperors and kings are crippled,
with suddenness
on their knees in deep green fields of slaughter
from the woods come silver hunting horns,
and they sound like the monks, who,
finding so many dead,
can no longer pray for lone faces,
nor fold the hands of our fallen

Brown guns rust, even as they spit
Splitting the emerald delight
of the wild, lonely lawns
And the trees surrender their branches,
Splintered by the shredding, selfish gunfire

The ground is soft, the duff moist with the light rain
That came this morning, offering peace,
But was turned back by the whisper of boots
Meandering through the dead leaves and dancing grass

All the leaders are crippled, torn to death
And now we are escorting their wives to the trench in which their husbands lie
Lime covers the wonderful green of their clothes
And their beards are frosted, they remind us of clean mess halls
And polished stainless galleys

Butchers and carpenters ferry their children out of the town
Putting the burning steeple at their backs
The hoods are drawn up, but they are not the monks, who cannot continue their songs

And so it is up to us
To fold the hands and close the eyes, to leave silver in the scarred dirt

The hunting horns are silenced by the coming dark, and the grass takes this moment
To repair
And so do we, looking to the sky
It is silver, and cloudless, very beautiful from this particular field
The crows haven't woken yet, and will not be here until tomorrow
Cawing heresy as they scratch at the soil
That we will fill our trench with

It is very beautiful here, especially the skies
And this place reminds of another place
Where there are no wild grasses, nor trees or crows
And where I could make no trench for my dead,
So stubborn was the sand.

2005-12-26T17:21:00.000-08:00

The price of peace is one bullet.

Where you put it is up to you.

2005-12-26T17:03:00.000-08:00

What shall I do when my teachers die?

2005-12-26T16:33:00.000-08:00

The dead must be punished. I cannot properly atone otherwise.

2005-12-26T15:44:00.000-08:00

Winter is always the time of sadness and longing.

The longing is indiscriminate-it is an urge to go to a place, but the place is undefined. The sun is very weak during the day, the light futile. There is nothing about it that I want. The night is bitter, and it is very alone. The cold is majestic, and creates a concrete loneliness that is somehow desirable. It is a time to be alone, and listen to the cold form in the air. The branches and the leaves die, because it is the right thing for them to do, and so we are not so sad.

We are all standing together, but we are not together, because it is wintertime. Our angels have deserted us-they, too, wish to be alone.

Statues are warm-they comfort, in their silence. The spoor of the world turns them black and brown and the trails of rust weep down their shoulders. They are alive, in their dying.

The source of light is deep and far away and the stars dim and fade.

We stand, waist deep in the cold, listening for something. We can hear the longing, coming like hope through the splintered trees. But again, the longing refuses to take us anywhere.

It is wintertime. And we will be sad when it goes, and we grow into the joys of bright, hot summer.

2005-12-26T15:35:00.000-08:00

I only know shy soldiers.

2005-12-22T17:48:00.000-08:00

We stood in the dark, under a brilliant moon, snow stretching to east and the west, mountains growing to the south, and to the north, brilliant, ghost-white birches, fading into deep nordic dark. And from the warm dark, drums, the rolling, lapping tongue of a thousand sacred drums.

2005-12-22T17:17:00.000-08:00

Cold. I am listening to the cold.

2005-12-22T17:11:00.000-08:00

It is bitter cold, and the fog is very, very cold. Not the alluring cold of San Francisco, the kind that sets in between the sunset and the brittle, fragile pre dawn, but a painful, bleak, and industrial chill, which fills every empty space, like a predator.It is a cold that warps the steel and wood we seek shelter in, and it eats everything, it eats hope and love and they are made sheets of ice that I cannot see.

There's nothing left to but listen.

2005-12-18T20:01:00.000-08:00

I am surrounded by profoundly sad people, and by their friends, who do not know that these people are so sad.

2005-12-18T16:11:00.000-08:00

I need to locate a copy of the film Beau Travail. On DVD.

Please help me. I can't find it.

2005-12-18T16:01:00.000-08:00

The following music, made by people who never forgot to not suck, now presented in list form for your perusal and enjoyment -

Anax Imperator
Death in June
Ah-Cama Sotz
Wolsheim
Voice of Eye
A Challenge of Honor
Front 242
La Joyaux de La Princesse
Coil
Econochrist
45 Grave
L'Ame Immortelle
Turbund Sturmwerk

Enjoy.

2005-12-14T15:26:00.000-08:00

All systems stop.
Nowhere to go.
All systems stop, nowhere to go.

Shit.

2005-12-14T14:08:00.000-08:00

I am sitting in a room on a decrepit steel barge. My teeth ache. It is cold, bitter cold outside, but it is warm and silent inside. There are books on the walls here, ignorant books, with titles like "Hot Paint" and authors like Dick Couch and Jo Jo Mayfield and some woman who insists on beiong call Lafondah Kyii.

I am casting out into a world I once knew, that I can no longer be a part of. I am reaching for my friends, but they will soon be out of my grasp.

I am scared. The woman I love, she is scared.

I am going to be a father, and while I am happy, it sometimes hurts worse than bullets, the searing pain of eastern woods and fires made of snow.

2005-12-02T18:41:00.000-08:00

For the purpose of clarification- I am not a pimp.

I am a sailor.

Which is more like a whore, when you think about it....

2005-11-10T18:49:00.000-08:00

According to Chief Krekel, food is no longer food.

It is "motherfucking food."

This change to take effect immediately.

2005-11-10T12:51:00.000-08:00

How to answer the phone.

"Deck Division office, BMSN Diebold speaking. How may I help you, sir or ma'am?"

Then the obligatory "Yes sir....no, sir.....yessir.....nosir......sir, yes, sir.....aye aye, sir." With a few "I dunno, sir" 's and "He ain't here now, sir" 's mixed in.

This happens a bout 60 or 70 times a day.

And that's where your taxes go.

2005-11-09T11:44:00.000-08:00

God. This blog is fucking dismal.

Oh well. You don't have to read it.

2005-11-08T12:27:00.000-08:00

I have become obsessed with the war. It defines me. It is somethign I wanted, more than growing up. And now I don't want it.

As a kid, I would watch my dad, who never spoke about his war. I watched the movies, the jarheads and grunts making history with their rifles, returning home damaged. The first Gulf war consumed my youth, the sandbox the stage for the battle for world peace, the lines of razorwire and humvees, the phalanxes of bitter men the last defense between a man I was convinced could destroy me, safe in my home tucked behind the Oakland hills, invisible to Saddam and his missiles. My dreams always turned to the desert. When I was old enough, I broke and ran, straining towards the sands, the memory of New York and Washington, DC seared into my heart and mind.

The Army would not take me. Years of bad luck had reduced my body, the joints worn down to nothing, my spine twisted. I continued to abuse it, anyway, lifting and running and swimming through searing pain, dreaming of a future as a hero.

The Marines were enthusiastic. They didn't care, they told. Could I run, depsite the pain, could I pull myself through their boot camp? Yes, I answered, I can and I will. As insurance, however, I talked to Navy, as well. They were ecstatic. High ASVAB, above average run times, pushups from sunup to sundown-I was more than qualified. I could be anything, a nuke, a SEAL, aircrew-whatever the fuck I felt like.

The day came to ship out for Parris Island. I had spent the days and weeks prior talking to my father. He told me about his war, about how foolish I was to try and be like him. He wanted the best for me, I now realize. But 17 is a stupid age, the age to do stupid things. I backed out of the USMC, a billet as a mechanized infantryman, safe and still rolling in harm's way, the brain tucked within tons and tons of steel. One month later I left for the Navy.

I saw more war than I could have imagined, too much war for anyone, too much for someone newly minted as 18.

I could have been anything, whatever the fuck I felt like. I should have donw the right thing. I should have stayed a kid. But I swam off into the war, growing up too too fast, shitting away my youth in a steel beast, camouflaged against the endless blue, wasting it like sand, letting the wind carry it off to Bahrain and Jordan and Saudi Arabia, melthig it way with the exhaust of jets and chatter of machine guns.

I became the war. I am no longer Kevin. I am war.

Now to become Kevin again.

2005-11-08T12:05:00.001-08:00

To ignore the dead. To dive into the waters of forgetting.

That is what we do, that is why we have come to the war.

Burying the pain of passing. In the sand. The sand that never parts, that runs back into the foxhole in rivers and waves, even as you fight to unearth the desert's heart with nothing but a rusted-out E-tool. Tamping down the grains, wetted down with spit and sweat and foul canteen water. This is what I do. In my mind I standin the desert, on the floor of the earth, under the moon. The moon is trying to flee, but I don't want it to be day yet. I need tome. I need more time.

I am putting my ruck into the hole, now almost full, the weight of the the gear something to keep the rising tide of memory. I am ashamed, but it is something I must do. If I want the war to end, to fall to pieces around me, clearing a salted path to home, I must bury my friend.

The ruck is hidden under the sand. I no longer know where it is. I throw my helmet to the ground, more ballast. I lay my rifle down. I kick sand on the the weapon. The wind helps me, and it soon disappears. A few moments. Some way to say goodbye, for the last time. An ending.

I return to the fire base, to sleep in the back of the 5 ton.

Morning comes. I go through the motions of the war, now second nature. All this in my head, in my guts, a sadness settling in the warmth of my insides.

The day ends. I watch the moon rise and smoke my last cigarette of the day. And when the desert grows darker, I rise. I return to the desert, with my E tool and more ballast.

It is time to bury again. Maybe this time it will be my last goodbye. But I know it won't be. Until I die, and maybe see my friend again, I will always return, to this silent place. And I will dig, trying to bury. But really I am exhuming.

2005-10-29T23:41:00.000-07:00

Today I return.

I return to the Suck, my home. I was born into it. I cannot escape it.
And when I die, I will be born again, to once again live within the Suck. It's all I have. I owe my life to it. And every day I look at the eagle and anchor and I hate it more and more, I hate everything it stands for and everyone who has ever had to salute it, the Seaman Smoke-a-lots and the Chief Schmuckatellis who just love every fucking minute of it. I owe it my gratitude, as well. I owe myself to the Suck.

This is the Suck. I am it and it is me. There is no escaping.

Hooyah.

2005-10-29T15:53:00.000-07:00

The world has the face of a wolf. It's eyes are very dark and search. And as I run these streets, slower than I admit myself to be, sick with whiskey, lungs seared by abuse, it follows, above me, loping, somewhere above the streetlights, gentle. And far above that, in the sky, clinging to the fur of this great wolf's neck, are friends who have passed, at the hands of the enemy, or at their own clutching fingers, friends I have loved and hated and feel with my guts and my heart.

2005-10-28T14:59:00.000-07:00

I am home.

I flew in Tuesday night. I had spent four days weeping and drinking on the base. At night my girl held me as I cursed and wept into sleep. I buttoned myself into my charlies on Tuesday morning, arriving at the airport far too early. I drank my coffee, and tried to smoke, and everythign was hollow. I slept as the plane wheeled through thick cloud, taking it's sweet time, pissing me off more and more as the minutes faded. I had a stopover in Vegas. My sister called me, we talked about some details, she told me to take care. I didn't want to.

A soldier approached me as I stood in the smoke pit, trying not to conversate with the civilians. We talked about our jobs. I had recently returned from the war, he would be entering it soon. It felt good to talk to him-something has brought us together. We share a war, a terrible fiery thing that has seared our collective flesh together, our bloods pulsing and joining in the new veins. This war has made us who we are. It will make our children and our wives, and they will be beautiful, fearsome things that we will fight to love and keep.

We said goodbye to Chris. The family had a private viewing on Wednesday, and I was allowed to spend a moment with him. I felt like a kid again, watching him in his coffin. I felt like I was just 15, and we were gonna go to a show tonight. Nothing about it fit. They let him go in his Norma Jean shirt and his old Dickies jacket. His brother Marc had put Chris's drumsticks and sunglasses in the coffin. He had put my copy of Call fo the Wild in there, too,and I gave Chris the letter I wrote the day he died. I felt so angry and so frustrated. I pressed my hand against his and he didn't wake up, and I talked to him, but he didn't talk to me. I cried, and his mom held me, and his dad too, and I felt so cheated. I felt like a kid, for a tiny singing moment. And then I stepped out side and I was no longer a kid, I had traded my childhood for the Suck. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to get better, and I was supposed to get out the Suck, and we'd hang out, like nothing had happened, and we could just walk the streets again, talking about the things we liked to talk about. We would eat dinner at my place, and we'd scam the liquor store, and Tara would come over, and Holly too, and we'd play black cat. Kyle would swing by, maybe bring Phil or Romano with him. Ben would be there, and Ian and Brian, Heather would be okay and Kedzie would somehow glide in, unnoticed. Marc and Sara would be there, everyone would be there. And it would be okay. That's how it was supposed to happen. But it didn't happen like that.

We said goodbye Thursday night, all of us. His teachers showed up, all of his family that could fly out, all the kids I knew and a shit ton I didn't. His doctors were there. I tried to speak, but I fucked it up.

I remember the very end of the vigil. Marc had a CD of Chris's, one that he had recorded himself. He played a song off it for us. I was sitting to the side of the room, next to Debi and Carlos and Brendan. It was such a beautiful song, just Chris and his guitar. I wanted to tell him how good I thought it was. But I couldn't. I felt tears forming, first a little, then in numbers. I bit my hand and held them in. I looked at Carlos, and the same tears were running down his face. Debi held him. Brendan looked so alone, so hollow. We all felt so helpless. Crying, frustrated, growing up too fucking fast.

I wanted my friend back. I want to fix the break in my heart.

We put him in the ground today. Everyone he ever meant anything to came to say goodbye. I was a pallbearer. The pastor spoke, and someone played some music, and there were prayers. But it was all the same. Every word was code for goodbye. I helped bear him to the hearse.

We put our flowers on the casket as he lay in the hearse, the coffin cracked open. We could see him, his aviators, like he was sleeping between classes. We closed the hearse and his dad placed his hand on the window as it began to slowly roll out of the parking lot. Chris's mom started to clap, and then we were all clapping, loud, beating our palms into sound, clapping agains the tears, and it felt right.

Chris's last show was good. He was fucking awesome. And if I'm good, we'll play again.

2005-10-23T06:12:00.000-07:00

I enlisted just under two years ago. Right after I joined my third command, I found out Chris was sick. Not just two weeks no school sick, he was sick real bad. I remember when I found out.
I had been in Bremerton for just a week, still checking in with the ship. I liked to go to Seattle in the evenings-it was just after Halloween, and it was bitch cold. I had left the base when my dad called me on my phone-it was bad news, and I should know, and could I call the family? Chris had leukemia. I didn't call the family. I was too mad and too scared and too sad. I walked.

I would go up Capitol and then walk down the hills to the Space Needle, then head back towards the docks, through Belltown, then left and along the water until I reached the ferry station. Bremerton was beautiful. The towns were decrepit, like brooding, damaged mothers, staring blankly in to the fog. The streets were caught up in meth and drowning in stale beer, but it was alright. Everything was tired, and the lakes and harbor were clean, like brittle razors that had been put up in polish rags. There was nothing to do but walk until the pavement turned to duff and the houses and trailers grew into trees, walking with you, whispering until you came to the shore, to watch the lights across the bay, the ferries lumbering across the the ink. I liked it. It made my heart feel better about everything.

I didn't call the family until we had begun our deployment. I was back in San Diego, on liberty, pitifully drunk and sitting on the wall of an apartment complex on North Island, peeling the label off of my bottle and staring across the water once again, watching the lights of downtown and the big, proud, green "41" of the USS Midway. I called them-it was true. My friend was being tested and injected and sampled and transfused and stuck and stitched and taped. He was sick. I tried not to think about it. My ship left America. I kept everything deep inside, hiding it form myself. I focused on the sand that blew across the Persian Gulf, cutting my face, staining the bulkheads. I lied to myself. "He'll get better. It's only fair."

I pushed it further and further from my mind. I focused only on the job. I volunteered, like an idiot, for all the most dangerous assignments, signing up for everything that came along. I came away covered in scars and ashamed. I ignored my friend. I didn't want to think about it.

I came back from the war more silent, nervous. I was alright, but changed. I can still feel the war echo through me, and I will feel it for the rest of my life.

I came home, and everything was okay. Chris was getting better-it was a false diagnosis. He would only need maintenance medicine-he wasn't really sick. I was happy, happier than I ever think I had been. We rode around in his car like nothing had ever happened. We had dinner at my place the night before I left for Norfolk, to rejoin my ship. We had fun. Everything was fine. Everything was alright.

It's October 23d. Chris died the morning of October 21st, in the predawn hours. As I was waking up, buffing my boots and putting on my uniform, he was suffocating. As I smoked, watching the sun rise over Desert Cove, my best friend died, paralyzed, sedated, lungs invaded by thick, foul bacteria. I wouldn't find out until the afternoon. We had knocked off early. I sat in my barracks, still in uniform, halfway drunk.I walked out of the barracks and staggered down the path to the Navy Exchange, alone. My girlfriend was on duty-she had the midwatch. I stood in front of the Exchange, watching the young men and women come and go. They had nothing to care about, no one to worry for.

My phone rang. I answered it.

I tried not to cry.

I miss you so much, Chris.