dEsqUAmAtIOn

Some days I just feel like jumping out of my fucking Skin. I want gone of everything…I don’t want be a part of this moment anymore. I don’t want to be here or there.

I don’t care about what’s going on…couldn’t care less about what you’re saying…I want to leave.

But I can’t. I have to stay. I have to tell other people what to do. Other people have to tell me what to do. Everyone has to do.

I can’t leave, so I want to shed my Skin.

Sometimes I don’t want what’s on my mind. I have too much on my mind. I have other things on my mind. I have nothing on my mind. I can’t change it.

So I want to shed my Skin.

Is that possible?

To Shed your skin and reappear somewhere else.

How would you go about doing that?

I use to be able to get away if I needed too…

Could go for a walk with my dog,
A ride,
I could drink,
Something...

But I can’t do any of that stuff. I can’t leave anything.
I’m stuck in my own skin,
which is currently under U.S. command.

The human skin is our body’s largest organ. It has remarkable healing properties. It protects us. Regulates temperature. Holds moisture. It can sense both pleasure and pain. It has two layers.

But sometimes I don’t care about that.

300 million cells that I don’t care about.

February 14 was more than a consumer headache, an emotional heartache, or a passionate love make, depending on whichever you were. To me, it also marked the fifth month I’ve been in country.

That’s fives months in with seven more to go. Not to mention the 73 days of “pre-mobilization.” So five months and 73 days with approximately 210 more to go. Oh stupid me, that 210 figure doesn’t include the anywhere from 20-40 days of demobilization. So we’ll estimate the remaining two and call it 240 more days.

Every twenty four hours your body sheds its outermost layer of skin. The layer beneath it replaces the subsequent layer and assumes that layers responsibilities. The layer most likely to be torn off by me. The other layers do not aspire to have this position.

Every thirty days, your skin will completely recycle itself. One day at time your body replaces its own barrier. This is why we don’t look like mobile red carcasses, as opposed to the not-so-mobile ones.

It has remarkable healing properties.

So I’ve determined that I will have to shed my body of its entire shell eight more times. Then I’m done. Thus proving that my clenching state of silence, where I can think about nothing except jumping out of my fucking Skin, is in fact a natural one.

Biological impatience.

~Rolligun



So how do you shed your Skin?

This i'll do

Recently I went to the firing range. It was an ad hoc shooting gallery that was used for training by the United States Army. This range wasn’t so much constructed as it was, well, a, “lets shoot here kind of thing.” There were plenty of locations available for this training exercise as every where you look there is nothing but flat desert. Infinite stretches of desolate tracts. Might as well be the surface area of Planet Zero, or so it seems to me.

This is the first time I have shot my weapon since I have been in country. This is a good thing. I won’t hesitate, I said I wouldn’t when I raised my hand, but nonetheless I would prefer not having to live with a decision like that.

The vast majority of our forces have issued to them what is known as an M16. It’s a nice weapon, a little picky and not as powerful as an AK-47, but it’s meant to mar and disable as opposed to kill. The thought process behind this is that two men will have to carry one man who is injured, thus removing more of the enemy from the battle field. I don’t see how this logic transfers accordingly to our enemy. Their M.O. is pretty much pull the trigger in the random vicinity of a U.S. Soldier (often times following an I.E.D.) and then run like hell. I don’t believe they wait for any of their wounded.

I have what is known as a M249 “Saw”’ machine gun. It’s twice the weight of an M16 and fires 600 rounds a minute. It comes with an extra barrel due to excessive heat and needs to be changed out when firing. It’s also what is known as a “crew serv” weapon meaning that it is sometimes operated in groups of two and is most often times used in a turret, or the weapon mount portion of a humvee. These are the guys you see half exposed from an Army vehicle operating the weapon. These are also the guys I eventually see, in half parts after an I.E.D. explodes next to them. The shrapnel and/or blast will separate themselves from their own torso.

Given my mission, it is highly unlikely I would ever be in a turret on a convoy, although I very much want too. Sounds ridiculous I know, but it is something I want to experience. I don’t want to kill anybody and I see what happens to these soldiers all the time, but I would still do it.

~Rolligun

Blowin' in the Wind

Have you ever been sitting down, perfectly content to entertain yourself as you deliberate your troubles. You have a problem, but your temporary answer is to let the issue breeze in and out of your mind. This spoken breeze bangs shudders back and forth, open and close, kicks up cerebral dirt and echoes deep blustery taunts for your inner-audio. But every so often it will blow a randomly plausible solution to your problem. This solution will whisk briefly past the backs of your eyeballs giving you a windy element of hope, only to be funneled out of your mind just as quickly as it came and rapidly forgotten with the bang of a shudder. But this is why you sit in peace, occupying yourself in a solitary ponder with the hope that one of these gusty premises will hold on, that it will swirl around long enough for you to turn it into a viable solution to your problems. It’s a meteorologically exhausting process that requires the combined attention of solitude, some form of troubling inspiration and at least one mindless physical task.

Note: Any task will do, just something to keep your hands busy while you wait for the next breeze.

Anyway, there you are sitting down (or whichever behavioral form of occupancy you choose) indirectly trying set your mind at ease. It’s just you, your problem and your mindless physical task. This is how you want it, with the exclusion of the problem of course, but that’s invariable at this point. Then something gets in the way. A disruption in the very course of nature. It’s called…a conversation. Sometimes unavoidable.

I’m not a patient person to begin with, but under circumstances like this, well, it’d be best if we hurry this discussion along. Urgently hurry along. For the safety of all at stake. A churning urgency.

Disruption: “Did you see my newest pictures from back home”

Rolligun: “Yes”

Persistent Disruption: “No, I’m mean the ones I just got”s

{shit}

Rolligun: “Oh…, no, not yet”

{quickly, quickly, concentrate on mindless physical task in an obvious manner}

Armed Disruption: “Here, look at this one”

{Shudders banging}

Rolligun: “oh, wow, I didn’t know you guys had one of those circular drive ways”

Puzzled Disruption: “Yeah, well, we do, but that’s not why I’m showing you the picture”

Rolligun: “no”

Jovial Disruption: “No, That’s my cousin Maggie standing next to our new car!”

Rolligun: “Well Maggie looks like a treat and the car, it’s nice, compliments the circular drive way”

A discussion like this continues on for several centuries, and I slowly start imagining myself banging my head off the corner of a table. I don’t want to be selfish, but I’m rather consumed at the moment with my own sense of loss and frustration, which is shrouded under the disguise of a mindless physical task. It has nothing to do with Maggie and the new car. (Although I will consider having a circular drive way one day)

Eventually we come to the conclusion of the photos and I wonder how many roles of film this project took. Also, I quietly take comfort in the fact that I made it through this enduring event without actually breaking anything on my forehead.

Then the unthinkable occurs. I accidentally get caught up in the natural pursuit of an amiable exchange. A temporary achievement in stupidity, I make the mistake of mentioning something…that is on my mind.

{Oh god what have I done?}

This opens the door for a whole new topic of conversation. I just wanted to go back to letting my mind float around the atmosphere in the hopes that it will settle itself. I especially didn’t want to continue talking, much less about what’s on my mind.

This prompts my photo wielding enthusiast to assume the role of advice giver. He begins with recounting personal stories of both triumph and malfunction, all in effort to support his unnecessary diagnosis.

{Oh please God give me a table, a brick, anything with a density greater than my head, please.}

I don’t take to advice. Giving me your guidance is on par with prodding a donkey. Good luck. I already have a system in place for determining my awareness or choosing which foolish course of action to take. It involves separation, a stormy conscious, and a mindless physical task. Quite simple really, all I ask from the public is that they let me be.

Often times one’s advice is a reflection of themselves. Consequently, people take great pride in giving advice, at least the ones who set out to make a valuable contribution and at the same time are able to take themselves seriously. So I do appreciate these efforts, even if they are unwelcome by my stoic donkey demeanor. In turn, I do my best to portray a reasonably interested appearance. I listen, but I strategically place as many encouraging yet (here’s the important part) culminating remarks as possible. I say things like…

Your absolutely right, I’ll do that.

Holy SHIT, that’s exactly what I needed to hear.

Well said, I just didn’t know how to put it into words.

True man, very True.

And finally…

FUCK YOU!!! That’s it!! That’s it right there, you’ve FUCKING got it!

Tactfully littered annotations from me that suggest the advice giver has made his point. The message has been received and everything will now be the better for it. Thank you for your courageous work. Please go now.

Apparently I didn’t achieve a suitable balance of agreeable comments vs. you can go now comments, and the advice giver found himself continually satisfied with the progress he was making. So I had to resort to blatant non-verbal clues such as piercing my eyes, paralyzing my facial muscles (with mouth open), juggling readily available objects, and finally knocking myself out with an ammo can. My efforts finally registered, and the advice giving session ended. It was an awkward ending, the kind where you each look at each other for an uncomfortable period of time, but nonetheless, it was all done now.

So back it is to my solitude, my troubles and of course, the mindless physical task. I can now peacefully resume waiting for all the answers to come blowing in.

~Rolligun

(feel free to act out “facial paralysis” if you haven’t already done so)

The fourteenth Of February

Today is only the fourteenth.

It’s just like any other day,

I’m thinking of someone, but it’s not because it’s the fourteenth.

I think of her everyday, regardless of what number it is.

Tomorrow is the Fifteenth, it’s another day too.

~Rolligun

Who's the foreigner here?

It’s very rare that I get out in the public where I’m stationed at. Basically, I just get shuttled from one camp to the next. I spend a fair amount of time traveling some of the roads, but the local connections I make are more along the lines of a window affair. I look at you, and you look at me. Sometimes there’s an exchange, a nod, a wave, but most times you could find more of a cultural merging hiding in an assortment of vegetables.

Anyway, today was a rare opportunity that I walked among the regulars, albeit briefly. I was at a Kuwaiti airport and I had to enter a building to pick something up. In order to get to where I needed to go, I had to walk through a large tunnel/lounge type of area.

I was by myself as I walked through this particular quarter and it took me all of three minutes from entry to exit. The setting is a waiting area, a place for casual lounging. There was a front desk with a gold lamp, rotating doors, and an abundance of couches, windows and TVs. The walls were full of Kuwaiti artifacts, pictures and other signified treasures. Also, there were rugs, plants and LOTS of people.

As I walked through, I noticed huddles of Japanese people, all standing in distorted circles. Apparently, they all packed under the same set of travel instructions, for everyone one of them seemed to be wielding similar items, namely pencils, eyeglasses, cameras and shoulder bags.

But there weren’t just parabolas of Japanese around me. There were significantly larger gatherings of Arab people, also arranged loosely in geometric patterns. Some were standing equilaterally in groups of three while others were forming more abstract patterns that didn’t strike me as graph-able.

All these people had been talking amongst themselves, concerned only with affable chit chat and perhaps travel plans, but regardless of interest or location, every single person automatically stopped talking and started looking as soon as I entered the area. Immediately, all eyes were mechanically fixed on me.

I came waltzing in wearing my desert camouflage and the look appropriate of a soldier. As I walked by, the sets of eyes fixated on me seemed to multiply indefinitely. The genial yet incomprehensible chit chat, faded into elastic banter. The lounge had become an idle party. I was the only American and military figure of any kind in the passing audience.

I had originally entered with a dry but sharp expression on my face, not deliberately, really by default, but in any case I couldn’t keep that posture for very long. There was simply way to many people staring at me and the lounging area was just too long.

I tried to maintain my discipline, my detachment from the environment, but I couldn’t take it any longer. The more eyes on me that I noticed, the more my disposition began to change. Half way through my unusual amble the expression on my face slowly began to change from a look of gravity to progressively fading into a smile, and shortly thereafter, it became all out laughter. I just couldn’t believe how many fucking people where staring at me as I walked by them. Their odd formations didn’t help matters any.

In addition to my solitary existence, my uniform, and my purpose for being there, the overall presence of my attendance was probably extra confusing to these people as I seemed to be laughing all by myself as I strutted on by. Foreigners.

~Rolligun

Going to the Zoo

Awhile back Meghan posted some ridiculous story about how she got out of not one, but two speeding tickets. Swift girl that Meghan, I wonder how she really did it?

I have never been that fortunate. As a matter of fact the only time I’ve ever been pulled over by a cop and avoided the inclusion of pen & paper, or worse, was that of my very first time.

When I was five years old I had about the same level of patience that I have today. With that level of patience comes an equal but polar need for adventure. No patience yes adventure. I was five years old and decided that the solution to these needs was a trip to the Zoo. The frustrating part about this plan was that I needed an escort. Most communities simply aren’t ready for independent five years to do things on their own. I had to get my mom to take me. But first I had to get her out of the bathroom.

Down the Hall and on the right…I knock on the bathroom door.

I knock and wait. Knock again. And kick.

Rolliugn: “moMMMM”

…Knock, Knock, KICK…

Lady in the Bathroom: “what is it”

Rolligun with a plan: “I wanna go to the zoo.”

Evasive Lady in the Bathroom: “We’ll talk about when I’m done.”

I’m ready to go now, I have no intentions of talking about anything, much less with a door in my way.

...Kick, Kick, Knock,...

The hell with it, I open the door and enter.

Lady with hands on hips: “I told you we’d talk about it when I’m done.”

Well shit, this could take forever! I’m standing there watching her conduct some endless facial operation and god only knows when this could be over.

Intolerant Rolligun: “I’m just gonna meet you there.”

Lady now interested in negotiations: “…Rolligun,…Hey Rolligun……Rol..”

I grab my best shoes, the ones with the Velcro and head out. Goin to the Zoo. The city Zoo was about a half hour away, by auto. Of course I had no idea how to get there, but at five years old the only direction I needed was down the hall, a left and out the door. I saw no problem with any of that. My chosen course of transportation was my “big wheel.” For those of you who aren’t familiar with what the were, it was a plastic three wheeled toy of a ride, intended for transport, with one single hand brake and a big plastic wheel in the front. How they ever came to name this thing, I’ll never know.

I started wheeling my way down the sidewalk and proceeded to take various lefts and rights. I come across a new city block every so often and promptly follow with another turn to some direction or another. Doesn’t matter which road I chose, I’m goin to the Zoo.

Eventually a police officer pulls up along side me. Apparently he had been following me, without my knowledge. Sneaky fucker, but this would also serve as my first lesson in their tactics.

Blue man with Sunglasses: “where you going?”

Rolligun with Big Wheel: “Goin to the Zoo”

Blue man with Sunglasses: “That’s a long ways away, I don’t think you can make it from here.”

Rolligun with Big Wheel: “I’m almost there”

Blue Man becoming Police Officer: “Where is your mom?”

Rolligun with Big Wheel: “There is something wrong with her face, but she’s gonna meet me there”

Police Officer: “I think I better take you home”

My vehicle is confiscated and placed into the custody of the back seat. Luckily, I posed little threat to the officer at this point and he allowed me to sit in the front, un-cuffed.

Police Officer: “Where do you live?”

Rolligun without Big Wheel: “I don’t know”

Police Officer: “What’s your name?”

Rolligun without Big Wheel: “Troy”

My name isn’t Troy. It has never been Troy. I was asked a direct question from a large and strange figure of authority, in sunglasses. I needed to give an answer. I didn’t give a fake name out of fear. Instead I gave the name of Troy to “honor” a friend of mine from “day care.” “Day care” was brick building devoted to compound baby sitting, or rather continuous nap time, as far as I could tell. Anyway, “Troy” was my chubby buddy who spoke slowly and didn’t have any other friends. This was my impulsive way of showing him respect.

Police Officer with Radio: “Troy, I need to find out where you live, so where gonna go to the police station”

Troy: “O.K.” (I’m not sure if he’s speaking to me or the radio)

Police Officer: “Have you ever been to a Police Station”

Troy: “No” (It would be a few years)

The police officer proceeds to make his way back to the station. I think to myself that, one, this isn’t the way to the zoo, and two, I’m quite sure that I could go faster in my Big Wheel.

While the police officer continues his verbal assault to determine where I’ve come from, I happen to see my mom drive past us.

Troy: “That’s my mom right there”

The police officer turns around, the lights go on and he pulls over my mom.

She stops and he approaches the car. I try to get out, but and the doors are locked. I turn around and look out the back. The officer speaks to the window and then instructs the door to open. My mom gets out of the car. The police officer comes over to release me from my temporary confinement.

I remember the expression on my mom’s face when she speaks to the cop. It’ a look of concern and obedience. It has nothing to do with going to the Zoo.

The officer free’s my ride from back seat impound and my mom turns to me.

Come on “--Troy--” we’re going Home.

Her new expression is more along the lines of something I was hoping to see at the Zoo.

We didn’t go the Zoo, we went straight home instead where I was quickly shuttled into my room and once again placed in confinement. My Big Wheel was also sent back to”impound.”

It would take some time before either of us were released again.

~Rolligun

I feel like Bill Murray

I’m not a film critic and I couldn’t name very many of his movies, but what I do know of Bill Murray is the type of character he usually seems to play. Apathetic. Constant and sardonic. It’s the way he absorbs life and his reactions to it. Those are the qualities I always found entertaining about him. I don’t want to be like Bill Murray, but that’s what I feel like. I feel like Bill Murray.

Well I think I’m done with my “sabbatical” as it was amusingly described at one point. I don’t think I’m entitled to such notions, but nonetheless, blogging resumes with the help of Bill Murray.

I was hopping to kick this off again with some tales of heroism, the realizations of deep internal thoughts, perhaps some danger or even travel. Instead I have nothing, so I will dazzle you with the following…

My pay is all messed up. The military seems to be giving me money and then taking it away. This isn’t a new phenomenon in the Army, however it is unexpected. I have yet to determine the reasoning behind the mysterious debt that is so finely referred to miniature fonts at the bottom of my LES (Electronic Pay Stub). It would almost be hard to notice the slight deductions, but I tend to be quite detailed when it comes to that sort of thing. Especially when it’s coming from Uncle Sam’s wallet. I sometimes get the impression he likes to pay out in large quantities of singles and every so often, he’ll accidentally miscount. Here is your three hundred dollars in singles, feel free to count them out. Well, I can count, and will be using all ten of my fingers when I get the chance to go the finance detachment and explain the situation.

Also, my LES is indicating that my ETS (The day I’m no longer a Soldier) is in fact three years longer than I had understood it to be. This is an interesting turn of events as far as my future is concerned. I don’t plan on being in the Army that long. No plans whatsoever. I had to look for additional assistance from the people around me to confirm if my eyes were working properly or not. Yep. Seems as though Uncle Sam has been transforming those dollars he’s been keeping into additional days on my enlistment contract. Quite the magician, that dear uncle of mine. Anyway, I’ve never signed such a document, that isn’t my correct date of discharge and this story isn’t over.

I have managed to pay off the last of my $12,000 in debt that was the creation of personal loans and credit cards combined (we’ll leave student loans at bay). I also topped off an investment account that I started with residential ambitions. Not quite ready for that point in my life, but the affairs are in order. Anyway, I’m free of creditors and bankers. Take your letters, your bonus points, and new offers and insert them somewhere else.

Things that have kept me busy, all described to you in run of the mill one word descriptions… (Not related to my everyday responsibilities)

Counting
Cleaning
Swearing
Planning
Documenting
Repairing
Swearing
Guarding
Moving
Packing
Unpacking
Swearing
&
Shadowing
(I’d been tasked with the temporary role of “arm candy” for my first sergeant. We bounced among camps and I served as an escort. I followed in stride and tried to look my best.)

~Rolligun

A Special thanks to Bill Murray.