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
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
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.
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”
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”
Friday, December 9, 2011
Sarah: Kate Bush - Wuthering Heights (1978)
Because there are some things we will always share.
Happy Birthday! (To Both of Us)
Sushi?
Monday, September 19, 2011
Meghan: The Island
The day I was born was not unique.
I was called out from wherever I had been before into the place where I was to serve my purpose, where I was to be alive. I was excited, ecstatic about this new existence I had, this new ability to think. But then when my story had run its course, my maker had no more use for me and I went to where those of our kind go when we have completed our usefulness; to the Island of the Jasmines.
This is our story.
Actually my story.
When I was assigned to a dormitory in the non-magical district I knew that my life on the Island would be tougher than I first thought. Jasmine’s magical creations far outnumber her nonmagicals, so the room I moved into was somewhat shabby and small. The matron of the house poked her blonde head in to see how I was doing. Her blue eyes flashed as she took in the disarray of my room and a moldy cereal bowl on the counter. One strain of living with the Jasminelings was the short tempers of our kind, especially when it came to old food. I quickly scooped the bowl into the trash, before there could be violence. The matron smiled and stepped in, letting in a few of the cats that were prolific on the island.
“I just came by to see how you’re settling in and give you a list of the rules.” She said, petting a tabby.
“Rules?” I asked. She handed me a long list that read:
Welcome to Jasmine Island! Here are a few rules to help you settle in
1) Jasminelings must never leave the island
2) Violence to cats is punishable by death
3) Other violence is an encouraged recreational activity
4) Jasminelings are to have fantastic sex every day (multiple times a day if there is time)
…
“What about the strait Jasminelings?” I asked. Since everyone I had seen on the island was female I wondered how Jasmine’s purely straight characters got by
The matron laughed, “There is a very, very small resort where Jasmine’s male characters go. I think they call it Spa Damian? Anyway they don’t do much but have sex all day long, what with the huge needs of the female characters. Poor dears.”
I laughed too, I doubted that the ‘poor dears’ suffered very much.
I continued reading the list and grew more horrified
…
45) Jasminelings must be physically perfect at all times
46) Jasminelings may not alter their appearance/character
…
“I can’t alter my appearance?” I asked, horrified, “but my story is over?“
“That doesn’t matter, why would you want to anyway?” The matron asked airily, “We’re all the way we’re supposed to be.”
She left, waving to me over her shoulder, “Call if you need anything, I’ll be up on the top floor.”
I just stood watching a cat rolling on my floor, unable to wrap my head around it. I couldn’t change my appearance? But I was just like them; I wanted to be different, I wanted to be me.
I fell to the floor, tearing at my long blonde hair. I didn’t care! I would dye my hair black, I would cut it! I would talk with an accent and pretend to be terrible in bed!
I would be different!
-M
I was called out from wherever I had been before into the place where I was to serve my purpose, where I was to be alive. I was excited, ecstatic about this new existence I had, this new ability to think. But then when my story had run its course, my maker had no more use for me and I went to where those of our kind go when we have completed our usefulness; to the Island of the Jasmines.
This is our story.
Actually my story.
When I was assigned to a dormitory in the non-magical district I knew that my life on the Island would be tougher than I first thought. Jasmine’s magical creations far outnumber her nonmagicals, so the room I moved into was somewhat shabby and small. The matron of the house poked her blonde head in to see how I was doing. Her blue eyes flashed as she took in the disarray of my room and a moldy cereal bowl on the counter. One strain of living with the Jasminelings was the short tempers of our kind, especially when it came to old food. I quickly scooped the bowl into the trash, before there could be violence. The matron smiled and stepped in, letting in a few of the cats that were prolific on the island.
“I just came by to see how you’re settling in and give you a list of the rules.” She said, petting a tabby.
“Rules?” I asked. She handed me a long list that read:
Welcome to Jasmine Island! Here are a few rules to help you settle in
1) Jasminelings must never leave the island
2) Violence to cats is punishable by death
3) Other violence is an encouraged recreational activity
4) Jasminelings are to have fantastic sex every day (multiple times a day if there is time)
…
“What about the strait Jasminelings?” I asked. Since everyone I had seen on the island was female I wondered how Jasmine’s purely straight characters got by
The matron laughed, “There is a very, very small resort where Jasmine’s male characters go. I think they call it Spa Damian? Anyway they don’t do much but have sex all day long, what with the huge needs of the female characters. Poor dears.”
I laughed too, I doubted that the ‘poor dears’ suffered very much.
I continued reading the list and grew more horrified
…
45) Jasminelings must be physically perfect at all times
46) Jasminelings may not alter their appearance/character
…
“I can’t alter my appearance?” I asked, horrified, “but my story is over?“
“That doesn’t matter, why would you want to anyway?” The matron asked airily, “We’re all the way we’re supposed to be.”
She left, waving to me over her shoulder, “Call if you need anything, I’ll be up on the top floor.”
I just stood watching a cat rolling on my floor, unable to wrap my head around it. I couldn’t change my appearance? But I was just like them; I wanted to be different, I wanted to be me.
I fell to the floor, tearing at my long blonde hair. I didn’t care! I would dye my hair black, I would cut it! I would talk with an accent and pretend to be terrible in bed!
I would be different!
-M
Monday, September 12, 2011
Buterbug: Contagious
I am the shiny spot on a raindrop,
falling to the ground at high speeds.
I am the cocoa taste of a freshly twisted oreo,
you went to get from the pantry to fulfill your needs.
I am the bumblebee that stung you but didn’t die,
whom pollinated the garden flowers in mid-July.
I am the grease on the cogs of your car’s insides,
dragging your crap through town with pride.
I am the lover of your soul and the hand you hold,
if I were a pen, you’d be writing in BOLD.
Beautiful, satisfying, strong-willed, perseverant, and courageous,
I’m much better than before and freaking contagious.
-S
Sunday, July 24, 2011
That guy: Urban Insanity 1
The Mona Lisa.
The Fur Elise.
E.T.
Everyone has their masterpiece. Their crowning glory.
To all of us, there was none greater than Urban Assault, as it had been haphazardly named. Bob had no other gauntlet, no test more perfect. He had built the perfect beast. And he knew it. Only the end level students were allowed to participate, and you only got one shot. It was a two man exercise, unusual for Bob’s games. There was no pass or fail. You were evaluated on performance and longevity alone. No one who went through UA was allowed to talk about it, and whispers and rumors spun wildly around. Not even the sub-instructors knew what it was. Bob alone sat in the throne of knowledge, changing details every year, so that even if there was chatter, it would be wrong come the test.
The tension was palpable in the small conference room. Bob stood there, soaking in it. Between him and us was a battered old table with a rattle cooking pot sitting on it. He held out his hand. Popsicle sticks. This really was a game to him. He tossed all of the sticks, each one with one of our names on it into the pot. None of us knew what was ahead, so apprehension was extreme during the stick draw.
Matt and I drew each other. From across the room, we nodded at each other slightly. Once the pairings were made, Bob dismissed us.
The elegance of this masterpiece was in its simplicity.
Capture the fucking flag…
The next morning we were dropped off at a motel in the heart of the city. We had been briefed, and the premise was straightforward.
The ‘flag’ was somewhere on the 21st story of a high-rise building we were given the address to. We had one week to prepare however we saw necessary. There were 3 2-person teams. Each team had been dropped off at a different location surrounding the high-rise. The game would begin at exactly 2am on Monday.
It had been named Urban Assault by someone.
But everyone who ever went through the program knew that the final test was really called Urban Insanity...
The Fur Elise.
E.T.
Everyone has their masterpiece. Their crowning glory.
To all of us, there was none greater than Urban Assault, as it had been haphazardly named. Bob had no other gauntlet, no test more perfect. He had built the perfect beast. And he knew it. Only the end level students were allowed to participate, and you only got one shot. It was a two man exercise, unusual for Bob’s games. There was no pass or fail. You were evaluated on performance and longevity alone. No one who went through UA was allowed to talk about it, and whispers and rumors spun wildly around. Not even the sub-instructors knew what it was. Bob alone sat in the throne of knowledge, changing details every year, so that even if there was chatter, it would be wrong come the test.
The tension was palpable in the small conference room. Bob stood there, soaking in it. Between him and us was a battered old table with a rattle cooking pot sitting on it. He held out his hand. Popsicle sticks. This really was a game to him. He tossed all of the sticks, each one with one of our names on it into the pot. None of us knew what was ahead, so apprehension was extreme during the stick draw.
Matt and I drew each other. From across the room, we nodded at each other slightly. Once the pairings were made, Bob dismissed us.
The elegance of this masterpiece was in its simplicity.
Capture the fucking flag…
The next morning we were dropped off at a motel in the heart of the city. We had been briefed, and the premise was straightforward.
The ‘flag’ was somewhere on the 21st story of a high-rise building we were given the address to. We had one week to prepare however we saw necessary. There were 3 2-person teams. Each team had been dropped off at a different location surrounding the high-rise. The game would begin at exactly 2am on Monday.
It had been named Urban Assault by someone.
But everyone who ever went through the program knew that the final test was really called Urban Insanity...
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Doug: Things I wish I could tell my child now
By the time you are twenty, one of your friends will be dead. It will seem like a god damn waste, and it will be. It is not, however, the end of the world. Live for those that are dead, and remember them. For if they are remembered they are not truly gone.
By the time your are sixteen, you will have fallen in love. It will seem terribly important and pressing and amazing and you will feel like all of you is alive and about to burst from your skin. This is normal. It is also normal for it to hurt like hell when it is over.Don't worry, this is also not the end of the world, though it seems so. Time will give you perspective, and at sixteen, you have a lot of time.
By the time you are eighteen you will in all likelihood be so sick of school that the mere sight of a math problem will make you sick to your stomach. THIS IS OKAY. I don't care what anyone tells you. It's normal to hate school. You've been in it for more than half of your life. It's reasonable to want to do something else. However. You will soon forget that you hate everything school related and begin to truly value your education, weather you choose to continue it or not. One of the most frustrating and wonderful facts of life is this: weather we like it or not we never stop learning.
There will be times when you think that I'm an old fool, and occasionally there will be times when I actually am an old fool. That being said, I do have years of life experience on you, so occasionally I might just know what the Hell I'm talking about.
By the time you are twenty you will have a good idea of what is right and what is wrong. This knowledge is a gift given to you by everyone you know and love. Do not squander this gift. It makes you human. Live what you know is right. Fight what you know is wrong. To do otherwise is to do a disservice to yourself and those who taught you right from wrong. It shames you, and them.
By the time you are nineteen you will have some kind of responsibility. Breathe. Weather you are responsible for a squad in combat or simply getting to work on time half the battle is telling yourself that you can do it. and you can. The rest will follow.
By the time you are legally an adult you will probably have done something you are truly ashamed of. If you haven't, I congratulate you. Keep up the good work. If you have, well, it sucks, there is no two ways about it. Still, apologize, do penance, and don't let it happen again. This is all you can do. It is, or it may not be, enough. But it is all you can do. And that is what matters.
You will, at some point, not do your best. This is fine. We all can't do our best all the time. Still, do try to do your best on the important stuff. You'll regret it later if you don't. Trust me, one of those experience things.
You will, at some point, hate me and your mother. I'm sure we'll have done something unreasonably unfair and hopelessly cruel. This too will pass. You may hate us. But we love you kiddo, get over it.
Remember this above all else: your life is yours, to do with what you will. It's too short and fragile to live with fear and regret. Live for something, not despite it. I love you. Go forth and take on your dreams.
By the time your are sixteen, you will have fallen in love. It will seem terribly important and pressing and amazing and you will feel like all of you is alive and about to burst from your skin. This is normal. It is also normal for it to hurt like hell when it is over.Don't worry, this is also not the end of the world, though it seems so. Time will give you perspective, and at sixteen, you have a lot of time.
By the time you are eighteen you will in all likelihood be so sick of school that the mere sight of a math problem will make you sick to your stomach. THIS IS OKAY. I don't care what anyone tells you. It's normal to hate school. You've been in it for more than half of your life. It's reasonable to want to do something else. However. You will soon forget that you hate everything school related and begin to truly value your education, weather you choose to continue it or not. One of the most frustrating and wonderful facts of life is this: weather we like it or not we never stop learning.
There will be times when you think that I'm an old fool, and occasionally there will be times when I actually am an old fool. That being said, I do have years of life experience on you, so occasionally I might just know what the Hell I'm talking about.
By the time you are twenty you will have a good idea of what is right and what is wrong. This knowledge is a gift given to you by everyone you know and love. Do not squander this gift. It makes you human. Live what you know is right. Fight what you know is wrong. To do otherwise is to do a disservice to yourself and those who taught you right from wrong. It shames you, and them.
By the time you are nineteen you will have some kind of responsibility. Breathe. Weather you are responsible for a squad in combat or simply getting to work on time half the battle is telling yourself that you can do it. and you can. The rest will follow.
By the time you are legally an adult you will probably have done something you are truly ashamed of. If you haven't, I congratulate you. Keep up the good work. If you have, well, it sucks, there is no two ways about it. Still, apologize, do penance, and don't let it happen again. This is all you can do. It is, or it may not be, enough. But it is all you can do. And that is what matters.
You will, at some point, not do your best. This is fine. We all can't do our best all the time. Still, do try to do your best on the important stuff. You'll regret it later if you don't. Trust me, one of those experience things.
You will, at some point, hate me and your mother. I'm sure we'll have done something unreasonably unfair and hopelessly cruel. This too will pass. You may hate us. But we love you kiddo, get over it.
Remember this above all else: your life is yours, to do with what you will. It's too short and fragile to live with fear and regret. Live for something, not despite it. I love you. Go forth and take on your dreams.
-Dad
P.S. I don't care how big you are, you call me "Doug" and i'm going to spank you.
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