Now With 100% more Swamp Imagery!

I have nothing original to say.

I don’t even have an original way to say what’s been said before.

I look for answers and find none. I desperately cling to the scraps of experience I’ve endured, hoping to glean a life lesson, morality tale, or epiphany in anything I do. I don’t do much. I understand nothing; sometimes I trick myself into believing I do. I don’t.

I am not unique. I’m not bad or good, I’m not the smartest or the stupidest, I don’t know great suffering and haven’t tasted glory. I’ve chosen comfort over meaning. I think about meaning, idly, while I lounge and recline. I think about it just enough to make me sick. No great passion burns within. I know I will make it to tomorrow. I always have before. I’ll make it to the day after that too. I will try to make it as painless for myself as possible. I suspect there must be more to life than avoiding pain, but the secret hasn’t fallen into my lap.

I’m sinking into a swamp of failure. My head barely bobs above the putrid bog of mediocrity. I lack the energy to keep myself afloat; I’m just waiting for the scum and frog piss to fill my lungs. I think about reaching for a log, but the filth is warm. I can sink below the algae and rot here forever. I don’t even know enough about swamps to use this metaphor.

This is the part where I’m supposed to discover some fundamental truth about myself or the universe. That part isn’t going to come. I’m not unique.

I don’t want to drown in my metaphorical swamp, but I think I might anyway. I want answers. I want purpose. I don’t know yet if I’m willing to do what it takes to find them. I don’t know what I could possibly do. Comfort is alluring. It’s more than most get. I may die of comfort. I don’t think I want to though.

Am I willing to turn idle thoughts into grueling action? Or can I quell these silly thoughts of something more with enough distractions?

Will I ever have anything original to say?

Will anyone care to hear it?

I think it’s up to me. Nothing terrifies me more, creeping chillingly at the edge of my comfort, than that thought. It’s up to me. Am I capable? Am I willing? I’ll try to be. I’ll try to try to be.

Reluctant Veteran: I'm so complex!

I never wanted my time in the army to define me. I didn’t even want to acknowledge that it was a part of me, yet I keep bringing it up in just about every blog entry. The truth is that I was a soldier for 5 years and I can never escape that, no matter how badly I want to. Being a veteran, even a reluctant one, carries with it so many conflicting emotions that I can barely make sense of. I’m not proud of my “service;” I hated every day I was forced to put on that uniform. I was disgusted with most of my fellow soldiers, the situations we were put in, and the seeming lack of reason to anything anyone ever did. I don’t believe I was helping to uphold some altruistic values, but a pawn among countless other pawns shuffled around for the gain of people I would never see. I feel ashamed to have worked in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the propaganda work I did as part of a Public Affairs Office fills me with guilt.

I’m not saying all soldiers should feel this way. There are those that truly believe in the American ideals of freedom and justice we were “defending.” There were and are hard working honest to god heroes doing what they think is right in our nation’s military, just as there are undoubtedly in any nation with a standing army. I respect those people. The fact that I was never one of them only adds to my shame. I suffered the hardships and inconveniences of war, but never believed in the purpose for it. I lived a lie for 5 years, and that has taken its toll.

I carry the burden of shame and guilt as I struggle to find a place in the civilian world. It seems obvious to me that I’m different than everyone else, and that any “regular” person can see I’m not one of them. I didn’t belong in the army, and now I struggle to figure out how to belong out here with the rest of you. And yet the feeling of being a veteran is full of contradictions. I find myself rolling my eyes at the “hardships” people face in their everyday lives. The trivial problems and complaints of well-to-do whiners put me on edge. I’ve seen real pain and true suffering, and anything less seems like it’s a gift wasted on the selfish masses. I feel inferior and judgmental at the same time. I hide my military past and do my best to show no signs of that former life, yet I’m convinced I have some deeper understanding of life thanks to all I was forced to see and endure. There’s simply no way to be whoever I would’ve been had I not enlisted when I was 18. Somehow I have to balance these conflicting feelings inside me and discover how I can live my life from here on out.

My father is a career army officer. A colonel who graduated West Point Military Academy 25 years ago. He truly believes in the army values that I see as blatant hypocrisy: “Loyalty, “Duty,” “Respect,” “Selfless Service,” “Honor,” “Integrity,” and “Personal Courage.” Based on my experiences, I can barely type those words without my upper lip curling into a righteous sneer. He believes them though, and has done his best to exemplify them for most of his life. He sees my time in the army as something to be proud of, and a shared experience we can bond over. This fills me with more conflict, guilt, and shame. I respect him for what he’s done and his devotion to causes and ideals he believes are right while at the same time rejecting those ideals and causes for myself. I’m reminded of my five years of misery every time I speak to him. His voice swells with pride as he mentions names and places I’d do anything to forget. My rejection hurts him, but I feel as if I have no choice. More guilt. More confusion. More shame.

Today several West Point cadets are staying at my father’s house; they’re in town for some presentation to high school kids or something. He wants me to stop by the house and meet them. I imagine I’m expected to offer a little insight into active military life as a young person, to give them a little taste of the enlisted man’s experience. I couldn’t be more uncomfortable and downright terrified by the prospect. I feel that I’m simultaneously above and below such an act. Honesty would disappoint my father and probably confuse a couple of idealistic overachieving kids intent on a future I despise. Extolling the army’s virtues is out of the question; I’m no longer a member of its Public Affairs office and I’m desperate to live by MY values, if I ever figure out exactly what they are. I feel like I owe it to my dad to see these kids. I know they’ll be judging me as much as I’ll be judging them. I never dreamed my life would be filled with conflicts like this, but I guess I just have to deal with them. I don’t know if I’ll ever make sense of the conflicts and paradoxes slugging it out inside me. I have to try, I guess. Just like we all do. I guess that’s life.

Time to go meet some West Point kids.

Inner Narnia and the Hitchhiker

My apartment complex is hidden deep within a thick patch of tropical Florida forest, accessible only by a lone magical road winding under the green canopy of foliage. The combination of the lush vegetation and charming old fashioned little street lights along the road has led to the nickname “Narnia” among me and mine. You’ve got Narnia Road, Inner Narnia, and Deep Inner Narnia. Inner Narnia is where I take my dog to romp and frolic, sometimes throwing sticks for him and sometimes just relaxing on the abandoned couch someone was kind enough to leave there for me. It is peaceful and serene, and semi-private. Not completely private though. For that, Krypto and I must venture into Deep Inner Narnia. We need only push through the outermost layer of trees and suddenly we find ourselves in a private land meant only for us. Instead of the dense and wild brush found in Inner Narnia, Deep Inner Narnia consists of neat rows of pine trees. The ground is covered in a lush carpet of the long pine needles which have fallen to the ground and turned red. The vibrant contrast between the red forest floor and the bright green of the healthy pines in the afternoon sun never fails to make me rub my eyes and nod approvingly. The pine needles on the ground aren’t prickly or sticky, I can lie down on the forest floor and enjoy the plush comfort they provide while gazing up at the cloudless sky. Until summer descends upon Florida, bringing oppressive heat and flooding Inner Narnia with mosquitoes by the legion, nothing can keep me from enjoying the simple solitude of afternoons in the forest.

The outskirts of Inner Narnia carries with it no such guarantees of privacy. Every once and awhile someone will walk by, heading to or from Narnia road, perhaps to the bus stop not far from my sanctuary. If they pass by too closely, Krypto will bark and growl at them, perhaps thinking of Inner Narnia as his territory as much as I do. We’re not the only ones looking for a slice of serenity that only nature can provide, though. The other day I was joined on my abandoned couch by a kid who must be about 18 or 19, who had been passing by before my dog’s protective barks drew his attention.

“Don’t you like white people?” he asked, as Krypto stood guard by the break in the fence that leads to Inner Narnia. I chuckled good naturedly and called my beast back, but Krypto still didn’t trust this newcomer. I hated to have my meditation intruded upon, but I smiled at the interloper as the fur on Krypto’s back rose to attention and he leapt comically back from the new guy. The kid smiled back; the thing about Krypto is that, though he’s a large animal, his goofy ears and deerlike prancing fails to intimidate. He quickly won the dog over with a tennis ball he’d been carrying, though he made it clear he’d need it back as it wasn’t his.

“So, where do you live?” the kid finally asked.

“In there.” I replied, gesturing toward Narnia Road. “You?”

“In there.” He said with a nod. “With my brother. Just giving him time to cool off. He’s mad because his friend got shot by a black guy the other day.”

“Yikes.” I said. I flung an acorn at Krypto, who caught it and tried to eat it. I knew I was going to hear this kid’s story whether I wanted to or not, but strangely enough, it didn’t bother me. Such is the power of Inner Narnia and its cushionless couch.

As we tossed things at the dog, he explained that he lived with his older brother in the same apartment complex as I. Earlier that day, his brother had gotten mad at him and closed his chat with his girlfriend. This was a problem for the younger brother, because he was planning to move in with her and she was about to give him her address. She lives in Ohio.

“Unfortunately,” the kid said “My dad and my brother don’t have enough to get me a ticket, so I’m going the old fashioned way. Just gonna walk and hitchhike my way there.”

“Wow.” I replied. He explained that it wouldn’t be the first time he’d traveled like that. Once he hitchhiked his way to New York, even though his dad called the cops on him. He was only a minor then, and hadn’t told his father he was leaving.

“I told him I left a note, but I guess he never saw it.” He explained. After chatting a little more, I gathered up Krypto to head home. The kid said he’d walk back with us. He clearly loved Krypto, offering him sticks and talking to him the whole way back. When we parted ways to return to our separate apartments, he waved goodbye to the dog.

“Good luck getting to Ohio.” I offered as he walked away. He nodded.

“Later.”

Hopefully his brother had calmed down by the time he returned. If not, I suggest he walk out into the woods, sit on the couch, and toss acorns at a dog. Works every time.

War Video

War Story

This one time, in Iraq, I was covering a Civil Affairs mission to provide basic health care for people who would otherwise never get to see a doctor. The civil affairs guys provided the medics, some infantry guys provided the security, and I wandered around with a video camera. We turned a school into a clinic for the day, and hundreds Iraqi men, women, and children lined up for free medical attention. This was our second trip to this location; the first time we got shot at as we unloaded the humvees. One of the infantry security guys was hit, and we retreated to a local community center for the day. Today we were back at the school and no one even tried to shoot us.

Like most places in Iraq, the school didn't actually seem to be in working order. I would've sworn it had been abandoned for years, but it was apparently a functioning schoolhouse. The small dark classroms had nothing in them but a few chairs and maybe a map or chalkboard at the front of the class. There was no electricity. All of the rooms opened up into a large courtyard in the center, which baked in the sun.

The army medics and doctors each set up in a classroom, and the rest of the soldiers attempted to keep some semblance of organization in the bustling throng of sick or injured people outside. I flitted from room to room gathering b-roll as the medics prescribed drugs based on their 5 minute inspections of these people who struggled to tell them what was wrong with them. Concerned mothers stood by their children, desperately ranting at the few interpreters on hand (less than one per doctor or medic) about what their children suffered from. No one objected to me sticking my video camera in their faces as they underwent what would've been a private examination in the US.

I went on several of these Civil Affairs missions, as US Soldiers (I just caught myself automatically capitalizing "Soldiers," as we were instructed to in written articles) helping Iraqis made good video, but I'm thinking about this one today because for some reason as we were setting up, a little Iraqi boy started following me around. He had to be less than 10 years old. He was bony and brown, covered in a layer of sand and dirt just like everything else in Baghdad. Most kids had learned a few words of English from soldiers: "Football" because they might get a free soccer ball from their encounter, and "Fuck you" because the soldiers thought it was funny to teach to them. This kid didn't bother with the usual phrases. He didn't talk much at all, just followed me around. After awhile, he grabbed my hand. I just stood there awkwardly, holding this little brown boy's dirty hand.

I guess I was among the least imposing figures there that day: like the other soldiers, I sweated under my heavy body armor and helmet, which I desperately yearned for permission to remove. Unlike the others, my M4 assault carbine dangled from my shoulders by a padded Dell laptop bag strap. My helmet didn't fit quite right, and I wore the dorky looking clear standard issue eyewear rather than the $300 Oakleys most soldiers splurged for. I stood awkwardly to the side, clutching my video camera, which was a magnet for the children. On several missions during my time in Iraq, I found myself playing back video of the kids for them on the little LCD screen, much to their delight.

This was the only time one boy latched onto me so fiercely. He was excited to see himself on video just as they all were, but remained by my side afterward. There was no getting rid of him after he had hold of my hand. I didn't really try to. Eventually I sat down on an old crumbling stone wall. He sat down next to me, still holding my hand. Whenever I decided to go get more invasive footage of checkups, he'd be waiting for me in the sun as soon as I stepped out of a classroom. Every time, he again latched onto my hand.

Today I drove to my parent's house to do my laundry, and heard about 48 people killed in a car bomb in Baghdad. They were attending a funeral. I could picture the seen perfectly. I've seen funeral processions in Baghdad. I've seen the aftermath of bombings. I remembered that day I held the boy's hand in Baghdad. I started to calculate how old he'd be now, but I realized the odds of him still being alive aren't that great. 48 people died in an explosion yesterday, attending a funeral. Men, women, and children just like those I'd met during my time over there. Some of them could have been those I'd met over there. If they'd even lived that long.

I don't know what I've learned. It's not like I had a meaningful revelation as I remembered the boy who held my hand. I cried a little for him, and the 48 who were murdered yesterday. Just a few tears as I pulled up to my parent's house. If he was 10 then, he'd be about 16 now. If he's still alive. I'm sorry, kid. I'm sorry you've got it so bad. Thanks for holding my hand.

DCUO and the Draw of MMOs or Videogames: I am a Nerd

Massively Multiplayer Online games (or MMOs) have always fascinated me as a concept. In these online games, a persistent world exists for all the players, who team up with others to help them on their journey or fight each other in hot Player on Player (PvP... get used to the geek acronyms. Geekronyms?) action. As an army brat, the idea of joining friends from all over the world to fight evil always appealed to me. I've dabbled very cautiously into MMO waters over the years, but never got "hooked." Last Friday, I bought a game that might change all that. What is so different about this new game? What unique experience does it provide that no others have? There are 2 simple answers: 1) I am a superhero. 2) I do missions for Superman.

The game, of course, is DC Universe Online. DC is the comic book publishing company responsible for Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman, among many others. As I kid, I was never much of a comic book nerd, but I LOVED Superman. He is and always will be the quintessential superhero, for reasons I'll probably explain in a later post. A few years ago, while deployed to Iraq, I started ordering Superman comics on Amazon and had them shipped to me there. What else are you going to do for fun in Iraq? As I researched notable and critically acclaimed stories, I realized that I dug the epic crossovers and the idea that all the DC superheroes lived together on the same world. I cut my DC teeth on Crisis on Infinite Earths, a 1986 effort to simplify DC continuity, though I didn't know who most of the heroes I was reading about were. Now I do. I lapped up the year-long weekly comic "52," which was about pretty much every hero and villain in the DC World. I own beautiful hardcovers of Kingdom Come and New Frontier, as well as most notable Superman stories. My already impressive geek repetoire had been blown wide open with my introduction to the DC Universe.

Now, thanks to this new game, I can be a part of that universe.

World of Warcraft is the leading MMO in the biz, and has been for years, but I didn't last more than a few months in it. I loved the concept of playing with my real life friends, and it is a remarkable game, but here's the thing: I've never been into Lord of the Ringsesque sword and sorcery type fantasy. I was a gnome rogue because I thought that was funny, but I didn't yearn to explore the darkest depths of Azeroth, teaming up with Night Elves to vanquish the evil Horde. No matter how expertly crafted that world was, it just wasn't a world that interested me. That's the key to an MMO- it has to be a world that you want to be a part of. People get hooked because they love the fiction they're experiencing. I've finally found my fiction.

DCU Online does an amazing job of making the DC Universe seem real. You start out creating your own unique hero or villain, and unlike the few distinct races you'll find in other MMOs, the options to make someone unique are impressively robust. I created a Dr Pepper themed heroine named Heritage, who battles alien invaders in futuristic Metropolis under the watchful eye of Superman himself. My girlfriend went for a reptilian demon woman with green skin and red wings. My brother's creation is a suave villain who roams the dark and gritty streets of the Gotham underworld. I've got friends who are a hulking rock monster and a Japanese school girl possessed by an Egyptian cat goddess, respectively. You choose your powers and customize your costume, and are set loose in the comic book world in all its glory.

The game does an excellent job of explaining why there are suddenly new heroes and villains flying (or running or leaping, depending on which powers you choose) around the streets of Metropolis and Gotham. You fight side by side with established heroes, taking down well known villains from the comics. Rescuing Supergirl, fighting alongside the Teen Titans, or helping Robin take down Harley Quinn are incredible fantasies being fulfilled. The game focuses more on action than most MMOs, and I personally use an X-box controller rather than a mouse and keyboard. This interesting action- RPG hybrid alone makes playing it a unique experience, but the fact that I'm helping my costumed idols take down their most nefarious enemies is definitely what has me hooked.

In DC Universe, I've finally found a fictional digital world that I'm willing to spend time in. I do the quests not as a means to gain levels, but to see what exciting comic book situation I'll be put into next. If Sony Online Entertainment (the game's publisher) manages to keep adding to this already brilliantly vibrant world, and as long as there are enough people like me who want their superhero fantasies fulfilled, I suspect DCU Online will do very well for itself. I only wish I were able to play with my friends who bought it for the Playstation 3, but for now I'm giddy just being a part of that world.

Role Playing Games, and particularly MMOs, are about being someone you're not, in a world that isn't yours. I have to go to my evening Political Science class soon, but afterwards I'm going to take to the skies of Metropolis and use my powers to help the hopeless. If I do enough good, maybe Superman himself will invite me to join the Justice League. I get giddy just thinking about it. I've found the world I want to be a part of, if only in digital form. I feel like I've been given the opportunity to open up my favorite comics, step inside, and live the life of a superhero. As a kid who wore a homemade Superman suit years after he'd grown out of it, swooping around the living room blasting the Superman: The Motion Picture soundtrack over and over, this is a dream come true.

In conclusion, I guess I give DC Universe Online about a B.

Meeting AA

I want to be a writer. I read somewhere once, maybe, that I need to stop saying that. I need to just proclaim "I am a writer." I can't quite do that. I've always loved writing, and it's the only thing I can imagine doing for the rest of my life, but I've always been afraid to label myself as a person who writes. I have the endorsements of my mom and high school English teacher, sure, but I spend my time convincing myself that I'm nothing special and wannabe writers are a dime a dozen. Sometimes I'm too embarrassed to admit that I'm interested in writing, that embracing it would put me in the same category as American Idol contestants who are convinced that they're bound for greatness because they sing in the shower. It's a powerful fear, maybe my greatest fear, to attempt what I love and realize I'm mediocre at it. I can't live with that fear anymore. It's time for me to try.

Starting a pretentiously named blog on blogspot.com doesn't make me a writer. I need to write, though, and I need to put that writing somewhere for people to see. This blog is a place for me to post short essays or whatever I manage to rip from my brain. I'll try to veer away from the angsty personal self examinations (looking at you, first paragraph!) as much as possible, and hopefully I come up with interesting and unique things to say. Tomorrow I think I'll write about a video game. After that, who knows? Not me; I lost my list of potential topics almost immediately after I wrote it. I'd settle in for quite a few posts about video games if I were you, Mom and high school English teacher.

Anomie: a word I first heard mispronounced (and misdefined, it turns out) by my community college sociology teacher last week. Webster's calls it "social instability resulting from a breakdown of standards and values; also : personal unrest, alienation, and uncertainty that comes from a lack of purpose or ideals." I don't know how I managed to live 25 years without learning this word. What is life, if not the search for purpose and ideals to live by? I've been immersed in many sets of standards and values, and still don't know which to call my own. Maybe through writing I can begin to tackle my anomie and learn what it is I'm to stand for. Maybe anomie will always be a part of me, as it most certainly is for the world as a whole. Maybe the search for purpose, ideals, standards, and values IS a purpose, ideal, standard, and value to live by. Maybe it's time to play a video game.

Apathy: I've lived the life of an apathetic person so far. I've prided myself on not caring about things I was meant to, and I thought that made me special. I realize now that there is nothing special about apathy. It's the easiest, laziest response to my inherent anomie. Now that I'm writing, maybe I can conquer it. Then I'll have to find another cool word that begins with A for the title of my blog. Nothing can rob me of my precious alliteration. (Except maybe a pun. This blog was dangerously close to being titled "Anomie Mine" or "The Anomie Within" but anomiemine.blogspot was already taken and I decided "The Anomie Within" is too obscure a Star Trek reference.)

So this is it. My big plan. I have a blog. I don't know who will want to read it or even what I'll want to write for it. I am writing though. For now, that's all that matters. I can admit it: I want to be a writer. Maybe one day I will be.