P.Y.T : Best Wednesday

I just got home from watching, “Think Like a Man.” I loved it absolutely – so funny. The feeling the movie left me with is hard to describe.  As I sat in the audience by myself, I felt empowered by my own resolve. Let me explain – this morning I went to the gym with a friend, then I scheduled some appointments, then I went to work, got out early, got a massage, went grocery shopping, then went to the movie by myself. Also, its Wednesday. It was perhaps one of the best days ever. Why? Because today made me realize, that I’ve been officially single for six weeks and I’ve learned more about myself in the last 42 days than the last three years. I crammed a lot of living in the last month. I partied with honestly amazing people, I rediscovered true friends, I went antique shopping with my parents, and I beat multiple people at skee-ball. I made plans to follow my dreams across the country. When I wasn’t looking I turned from a wannabe independent all-bark tough girl, into an honestly amazing self-confident woman with the best friends a girl could ask for. I’ve learned to defend myself, let others help me sometimes, party just as hard as I work, and always be comfortable with myself. I am so thankful that I finally figured out how to live. Someday, I’ll find someone to share the amazing feeling that comes from a late night movie on a Wednesday. But for now - here’s to loving today and looking forward to someday. Cheers!

~ S. Buterblog

P.S. Most interesting self-discovery: My Favoritie Music = Classic R&B, zomg.

That guy: Urban Insanity 2

I could feel myself tossing and turning. The problem with 2 hour sleep shifts with my insomnia was that instead of sleeping in the traditional sense, I was more drifting. Half in, half out. I suppose it was a decent way to be since we had to be ready at any moment, but needless to say, I was tired.

It was Saturday night, no. Sunday morning. I could tell even in my delirium that it was getting closer to show time. The faint smell of smoke drifted through my brain.

Like clockwork, Luanne, the overweight, unwed, trailer trash woman who had been rooming next door to our room since the Regan administration had waddled herself outsidefor one of her four daily cigarettes. Apparently, she had been injured in some kind of workplace related accident. When the company finally went under, a fancy suit with a law degree had found some kind of loophole in her settlement, and she was now being sponsored by the government. Our tax dollars hard at work. Being that she had lived in that dingy motel room longer than I had been alive, I decided to get as much info outof her as I could, and the usual tactic of ‘Hey, wanna cig?’ had proved effective. She would soon need a crane to get out of bed, but more than 4 smokes a day was ‘bad for her health.’ Or as I called it, a large Diet Coke with her triple bacon cheeseburger.

But something wasn’t right. Something was different. My over-logged brain tried to filter the information.

Holidays.

Mint.

Menthol.



There it was.



Menthol. It wasn’t normal smoke.



That sickly sweet mint tinge wafted delicately under the motel room door.



And it hit me. Luanne didn’t smoke menthols.

Carlos, the toilet-wine making cholo on the other side, and in his own words “Anytime I step outside I gotta smoke, mang!” didn’t either.

I sat up, the fog lifting from my head. Matt was sitting at the worktable we had brought in, soldering something. He started to say something, probably to let me know I still had some time left to sleep, but I cut him short with a motion. I leapt quietly from the bed, and moved over towards the door. I placed my eye up to the peephole, and shifted the little lever we had installed, tilting our custom mirror just slightly. As the view warped and landed on Carlos’ doorway, I knew it was going to get sticky in just a minute. I threw a few hand signals towards Matt, and he was ready in an instant, right behind me. He passed me my bat, and I was grateful for the small level of comfort it provided, gripped in my hand, as I adjusted the mirror back to normal position so we could maintain a level of surprise. I would have killed to have my finger tensed around the trigger of my beautiful Walther, but Bob had declared this game would take place without firearms of any kind. Understandable, but anyone who had been a student of Bob’s long enough knew better than expecting to live forever.



I had forgotten all about the third team. In my mind, they were less of a threat. Honestly, it was no surprise Aarika and Madison had gotten paired together. No one could stand them, except for each other, both their names basically meant ‘warrior girl,’ and the twins, Asher and Jess, seemed destined to be together forever.



I would be willing to bet that Bob had somehow rigged the draw to ensure the twins ended up paired. Both of them were combat experts, the kind you’d see in old kung-fu movies. Everyone gave them a wide breadth of space. One on one, I could take them. Not easily, but I could get the job done. Together, however, even Bob had trouble putting them away. That was the team I was not looking forward to facing for the flag.



My guess was that Bob had told Aarika and Madison of our location to even things out a bit. They were good, sure. No one spends 10 years training with Bob and can’t compete. But they simply didn’t have the same skill level as the rest of us.



I should have figured it out the moment I smelled that damn menthol.



Aairka, the stereotypical tough as nails street girl, was about as black as they came. Smoked Kools, spoke street bitch, and was even referred to by Bob as ‘his Nubian princess.’ Her tight dreads were a point of pride for her, claiming that they helped her feel in touch with her ancestors, even though she probably couldn’t have pointed out Africa on a map if you took the names off. She took a liking to Madison, probably because there weren’t any other girls that would look you in the eye as they told you to go fuck yourself.



Madison couldn’t have been more opposite. Tall, leggy, with flowing blonde hair, she was one hell of a looker. Every guy had a thing for her, and she knew, and used it every opportunity she got. A former gymnast, she was supposed to lead her team to the championships when she was kidnapped after practice one day and held for ransom. When her fantastically rich parents refused to ‘negotiate with terrorists’ the kidnappers had cut her Achilles tendon, and sent a video of it to them. It ended in a SWAT situation, freeing Madison and killing the kidnappers, but she never forgave her parents. After a few years of physical therapy, she ran away from home, was picked up by Bob, and turned her cold, bitter energy into a passion for sharp things like the one that took her Olympic glory from her.





Even though there were no firearms, Bob said nothing about projectiles. I stood ready to pull the door open, bat at the ready, and Matt stood in the back of the room with the biggest fucking slingshot I’ve ever seen in my life.



Matt was the tech wizard. He could make MacGyver seem like a cub scout. He claimed that he could ‘make anything out of anything’ and so far, he had yet to be proven wrong. I was grateful to have him on my team. I had seen him wire his way out of spots I couldn’t even begin to think were possible. It looked like the slingshot he was holding was made out of one of the bedsprings from our room, his elastic belt he always wore, much to the ridicule of everyone else, and part of a table leg. Where he had pulled the duct tape from, I had no idea. He always had sticky fingers. What blew me away most of all though, was his ammo. No ordinary slingshot round, it seemed he had super-glued handfuls of ball-bearings together, making devastating looking fist-sized ‘pellets.’



He drew back on the belt, cocking the brutal ammo, and I stood at the ready. We knew they were coming, and they knew where we were. A gentle knock hit the door, and I gripped my bat tighter, no noise audible in the room. The knock grew louder, and with both of us breathing silently, we could hear Aairka say ‘Maybe those assholes aren’t in.’



“They’re here.” Replied Madison. “The fat bitch next door said so, and it doesn’t look like she can leave if she wanted to.”



The knock came just a bit louder. Matt nodded at me. I mumbled loud enough for them to hear ‘Just a fucking minute.’ I could hear them shuffle at the door. I gripped the door handle in one hand, and my bat in the other.



3.

2.

1.



I unlocked the door.



It came flying inwards, and chaos erupted. Matt let his first round fly, striking Aairka right in the forehead. She went down in a spray of blood. Madison was right behind her, and once her partner dropped, she launched herself into the room. I swung the bat, but she threw herself over the swing. She was in Matt’s face before he had a chance to reload.



He never stood a chance, and was dropped unconscious with a single kick.



Madison turned to face me, and I smiled. She was pretty, and we both knew I was far stronger and faster. All reasons to smile. She smiled back. But for a different reason.



I felt the double fists slam into the back of my head almost before they struck. I rolled with the blow, the world exploding into stars around me. I staggered to my feet, and barely managed to block the flurry of strikes aimed at my face by Madison, and the blood-soaked Aairka.



Stupid again.



As I passively avoided and diffused their assaults, I used the time to regain my composure. The world quit spinning quite as hard, and my eyes returned to full spectrum view as opposed to the tunnels they had been looking thru. It seemed my opponents realized this, as their attack grew more frenzied, but it was too late.



Madison threw a beautiful right hook towards my face, and I took advantage. I stepped inside it, and using her momentum, and my considerable upper-body strength, countered with an elbow straight to her sternum. The crack could have been heard over a space-shuttle launch. She screamed in pain, and dropped to the her knees, clutching her chest, gasping for air, as the broken bones squeezed her lungs.



Aairka tried to act on the moment, snaking an arm around my neck, but was standing too high, and was immediately flipped over my shoulder, crashing right into Madison’s back, causing her to scream again. Aairka went limp, a combination of blood loss and sheer impact, but Madison, as tough as she was, was left crushed, crying under the weight of her partner. I knew I only had a few minutes to act before someone called the cops, and one or more of my opponents recovered enough to do something stupid. I grabbed Matt, dragging his unconscious figure into the pitiful motel shower, and turned the cold water on. I didn’t have time to make sure he woke, so leaving him coming too under the ice cold flow, I went back out into the room. Madison was hurt bad, and Aairka was still out, holding her flat. Ordinarily, I would have expected to see Madison perform some magnificent move to free herself, but a shattered sternum would keep even the toughest people grounded.



But it wasn’t enough. I liked Matt. And it was my job to make sure he stayed safe. He was capable of holding his own against any old street punk, sure, but he was no fighter. Plus, I was exhausted. Bad combination.



I walked over to Madison. She tried to roll out from under her partner, knowing how vulnerable she was, but every movement caused her smashed chest to dig deeper into her lungs. She barely made out a whimper, much less a roll.



I let my sadistic side come out. I reached over to the table Matt had been sitting at just a minute ago, and grabbed a ball of twine he had been using for one of his projects. I put my foot on the back of Madison’s ankle. I could feel the scar tissue beneath my bare foot from where the surgically repaired tendon lay. I could tell the rapid flutters of words coming from her limited oxygen supply were pleads, maybe even prayers. I started to lean, slowly at first. Even with her lack of breath, the agony could be heard in her voice, as her weak screams rang in my ears. I only increased the pressure, absorbed in the moment, until Matt’s hand grabbed my shoulder.



He had a black eye, and a trickle of blood ran down his forehead from where his head had hit the table before he fell to the floor. But he was ok, and that was good enough for me.



“She’s done, man. We need to go before the cops show up. I’ll bet you anything the twins have a police scanner too.”



I nodded, pulled out of my sick little moment. I stepped off Madison’s leg, almost disgusted by the relief I heard in her gasps, but Matt’s hand guided me. We were packing, and as we tried to be ready at any moment, it didn’t take but an instant for us to be ready to roll. I took the rope still in my hand, and sitting Madison and Aairka upright, I bound them together by the neck. Tight enough that when Aairka awoke, she wouldn’t move for risk of choking out her partner. We stepped out of the motel room with our duffels and backpacks, shutting the door behind us. Thankfully, the cops response time in that area of the city was notoriously poor, and no one would be too excited to talk to the police.



We booked it down the road, turning into an alleyway. Within 15 minutes of our solid pace, we were at a new motel, and settled in for the ‘night.’ The team we had left in our previous room would be picked up by the cops, and would be out of the picture come Monday, but that didn’t really make things easier. The real challenge was yet to come.



I lay there on my even less comfortable bed, drifting back in and out of reality, my sleep deprived brain brought to the surface the smile Madison and I had shared for that brief moment.



I shot upright, ready to strike, detecting the presence of someone nearby. It was just Matt, waking me for my watch shift. We exchanged a knowing look as we traded places.



I looked over at the clock. 6am.



20 hours til game time.

Doug: It will be real

So here I am again. Staring at this blank page and wondering if it matters what I write or only if I write. Thirty six minutes. That’s the time left on my battery. No. it jumped to forty two. This Mac is temperamental, depending on my actions. I kind of like it, like it has a personality. I haven’t named it yet, and I should. All things worth having have names. It was recently brought to my attention how important names are. Names have power, and to know the name of something is to have a kind of power over it. Or so it is said. But to give a name is something personal, almost like making love, though perhaps over more swiftly, or perhaps more important. Perhaps not.

Solitude. The name of the place you can carry with you. The thing’s name has many meanings, none negative in my eyes, though you might be hard pressed to find someone who agrees wholeheartedly with me. People need other people, and those that carry around Solitude carry a hole in their lives as well. Not altogether a bad thing. A bad thing would be to carry Loneliness, Solitude’s less attractive, but more prolific brother. As the saying goes, depression is just anger without the enthusiasm.

A year. It’s so long, and yet I just breezed through four of them. Did I do all of the things I remember? Recently my memory has become suspect, as I suspect all memories do given time and fermentation. Like a good draft, always better at the first drink, but the bitterness is found in the bottom. Keep drinking, if your bartender is good you won’t reach the end until it’s all incomprehensible anyway. Just flashes of color and sound and sweet and bitter things. Imagination fills in the blanks, and things are much richer that they truly were. Or are they just pale shadows? Perhaps the drink was that refreshing, the air that sweet, the sex that satisfying. Like a long run mixed with the finest of meals.

My wits will give me what I need in the coming months. I’ve spent the last four years learning how to think critically, problem solve, strengthen my mind and body, and bide my time. I’ve learned patience, I’ve learned speed through adversity, I’ve learned how to lie and love, and the hairsbreadth that separates the two. I’ve learned to drink deep from the well of knowledge without falling in. I’ve learned that some things can only be learned through weeks of mental and physical fortitude, and some ideas can be grasped nearly before they are said out loud. Though I’ve never been to Oxford, and couldn’t place it on a map, I’ve learned about the Oxford comma, and the difference between bringing the strippers, Stalin and JFK, and bringing the strippers, Stalin, and JFK.

The difference is important.

I’ve learned that liquor can make you sicker, and beer too, though I’ve developed a taste for the latter and not the former. I’ve learned how to make a rue, and what it’s even for. I’ve learned… well, who cares? I have learned much and cannot list it all here. That is the virtue of  knowledge, it is nearly limitless, and in recounting it you gain more.

I bought a car, and subsequently learned how to change oil for myself. It is dirty work, though it feels clean, and only one who has worked with their hands will know what I mean by that.

I bought a weapon that can kill a man faster than you can say the words. I found I had a taste for them and bought more. I’ve spent a small fortune making it and myself more lethal for a threat that may never come. I feel reasonably prepared. The trigger is smooth, my reflexes are well trained, and though I’ve never killed a man and never wish to I feel like the act itself would be no great trouble.

The older part of mind believes this to be arrogance beyond reason, and chastises me for thinking it. Another part of my mind demands it be censored, but I’ve yet to delete an entire idea from this ledger yet, and I’ll be damned if I do it while I’m so close to the end. I mean to write this till the complex piece of metal, plastic and loose ions in front of me goes cold. Music hastens the process, but I’ve always had weakness for it, and Florence is in fine form tonight, though I’ve had to occasionally goad her past the weaker tunes.

Another thing that’s changed about me. I’m afraid of this change. Afraid of what it means. Three young men that I have known personally have died on me. Others have died, but they were old, or relatively unknown to me except in deed. But these there I have shaken hands with, laughed with, told stories with, which is the most intimate thing you can do without touching flesh. I cried unashamed tears for the first two. I even swore vengeance for one. It was both childish and old of me. I swore that the men I called brothers would sing the death songs and claim vengeance in my stead. I do not know if they did, only that they tried. But the time for beating breasts and strong flowing tears has passed. Or so it appears. I did not weep for the third. I do not know if it is because I did not have a great fondness for him, or if I am simply tired of the people I know being claimed by the reaper. I fear for either conclusion. I want to cry, for it means that I am not yet numbed to the pain of passing. I want to scream and beat my chest and sing the death songs that I know well.

I cannot now tell if these tears I cry are for him or I.

I wonder how I will feel about this a year from now, when I study with the warriors I hope to call kin. I will earn my place among them, at a price as yet undetermined. A price I’m willing to pay without knowing. This I know for certain. Perhaps the only certainty.  I’m afraid of this intervening year, afraid I will lose my razor’s edge, honed only as steel sharpens steel. To turn a phrase.

I am afraid. But I will overcome. As is the way of those I hope to join. As is the way I wish to be. I have always held the belief that if you hold something in your mind long enough, it will be real.

It will be real. 

Doug: Victory

Short post is short. But I feel like I said what I wanted to say:

We may pull out of Afghanistan tomorrow, and the Taliban, Al Qaeda, protesters and fools the world over will celebrate that they have beaten "Mighty America". But tomorrow I'll wake up and decide that I want to read any book I want, or call someone on my cell phone, or kiss my girlfriend in public, or watch my gay friend get married to the love of his life, or turn on the faucet and get clean water, or have my daughter go to school and learn so that she can do anything she wants with her life. And I'll remember that the Afghan people have none of these things that I take for granted, and I'll wonder how they can possibly think that they've won anything but ignorance and fear.

-Doug

"The last temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right deed for the wrong reason."

-T.S. Elliot

Buterblog: The Rest of My Life

I wish that life came slowly. It seems like, instead of progressing continuously and linearly, life moves like at step-wise plot. Bam - you were born. Bam - you had your first day of class. Bam - you graduated high school. Everything would be much easier if the defining moments didn't happen so fast. I am in one for those defining moments. I am taking another chance, taking one small step for my life and one large decision for my future. I applied to three pharmacy schools this past December - the University of New Mexico, the University of Washington, and the University of Colorado at Denver (in Aurora). Fortunately, I got an interview at each school. So far, I've had one acceptance. I'm in a hotel room in Aurora, CO wondering what I want for the rest of my life. Which Pharm.D. program do I choose? Will I have to choose? How is the interview going to go tomorrow?

I miss home and while I nod to my past, I'm ready to begin my future.

S. Buterblog

Doug: Loss

I stepped out into the cool morning air, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. My team followed me out and I narrowed my focus. One of them I know well, the other two are from Army and Air Force, and could be anyone. I had talked to them moments before, and had confidence in them. Their part was small, but if any member of the team failed, it would show. I had not had to impress upon them the importance of getting this right.

What seemed like the entire army battalion had formed up on the grass next to Clark Hall. They had finished PT early, and were ready. My brothers in the Navy and Marine Corps, covered with sweat and dirt, were rushing to do the same. I slowed my stride, giving them more time. Soon we were formed up as well, a line of four, a flag guarded by two young men and two young women, ready.

The Army Cadet took a deep breath and then called the command to attention. My eyes snapped forward and my posture straightened slightly. “Right Face! Forward March!”

In seconds we were below the flagpole. Our steps were not quite in time, but I could not expect those that did not drill to know how to march. The Cadet called a halt, and then, very suddenly, it was my turn.

“Inboard face.” I said, the command private to the color guard. The two in front of me about faced, so that we all faced towards the center. I broke formation and quickly untied the rope on the flagpole, called a halyard. My opposite number then broke ranks and assisted me in snapping the flag into position. We both came back to attention and I summoned my voice.

“ATTENTION TO COLORS!” Everyone on that field who had ever taken an oath came to attention, and the flag darted skyward.

I felt the rope through my fingers, coarse and wet. After what seemed like an eternity, the rope refused to pull, and the flag was at its apex. I nearly winced, but kept my composure. This was where the procedure changed. Slowly, very slowly, I lowered the flag. In my memory, it took forever, but I know it took mere seconds before it reached half mast. Tucking the rope to my side I came back to attention, saluted, cut, and gave the command. “CARRY ON!” The perfect formations broke, and after quickly tying off the halyard, my team and I about faced and marched back to our starting point, and then, only then, did I look at the woman whose son I had just symbolically laid to rest.

She was short, and plump, with deep laugh lines and a full face. Her hair was brown turning to grey, and I could tell that she was full of the best kind of love. She looked nothing like my mother, but was everything like my mother. Her eyes shined with tears, but her face was composed. I had a moment of insanity where I imagined my mother like this and then violently pushed the thought away, as though thinking it would somehow make it so.

Major Robertson moved to speak with her, and indicated that all the other Marines should come with him. I had to run upstairs for a moment to hand off my responsibility as officer of the day, but sprinted back down the stairs with my friend Carl.

She was still there, surrounded by men and a smattering of women in various shades of green and black. I was late, but caught the last few words she said before Major dismissed us. “Take care of yourselves.”

As I walked away I felt both an immense pride and immense sadness. I was so sorry that I had to be one of the hands that helped carry her son home, and yet was so proud that I had done it right. In the days since I had heard that a Marine in Afghanistan had died, and that his parents were University of Washington professors the war had come a little closer to home, a little more raw, a little more bitter. This last week has been the worst in that woman’s life, and still she came out to see us honor her son. She wasn’t bitter with us; she wasn’t angry that we took her son and put him in harm’s way. The only thing we wanted out of us was to “Take care of yourselves.”

This morning I walked home. I thought of all the men who had helped carry her son home. First his best friends in Afghanistan, people he had fought and bled and laughed and cried with. Then the air crew who flew his body from that place to the United States. Then the men who carried him from the plane to the place in Washington DC where all the bodies of the dead go for preparation. Then the men and women who prepared his body. Then the Marine who escorted him to his home in Washington. Then the Marines who carried his body to the grave he now resides in. And finally me. The not quite Marine who was randomly chosen to raise the flag on this day. To put the flag at half staff on this day. To honor his memory in front of his mother on this day. To carry him home.

I know that wherever there is a flag going up today that this same ceremony is taking place. I am not unique in remembering. I do not know this Marine but for his name. William Stacy, Sergeant of Marines. But I did have the honor and sadness of raising the flag of the country he gave his life for in front of his mother, and I will not forget that.

-MIDN 1/C Douglas Wood
USMC-R

“We'll dig his grave with a silver spade,
Walk him along John carry him along.
His shroud of the finest silk will be made,
Carry him to his burying ground.

We'll lower him down on a golden chain,
Walk him along John carry him along.
On every inch we'll carve his name,
Carry him to his burying ground.”
-Great Big Sea, “General Taylor”

Sarah: Kate Bush - Wuthering Heights (1978)

Because there are some things we will always share.

Happy Birthday! (To Both of Us)

Sushi?