tathar
I tried to change the world, but they wouldn't give me the source code.
Life and Existence: To be or not to be?
I think too much.
I do too much thinking and not enough doing. Even so, my thoughts are turned towards not thinking, but being. Existence is life. Every organism's primary goal is that of self-preservation. To be is not the question, it is the conclusion.
So, I am thinking about what I must do...to be.
The question arises then, what state of existence would I be? I can survive under the worst of conditions. I have and I will continue to push the tolerances of my mind and body. Yet, as terrifying the things I have done to myself, is that any way to be? Such stresses are fine for tests and shows of bravado, not as conditions of life.
As an example, take the time I spent at OP Warheight in the Nuristan region of Afghanistan. For three months, “Papa Smurf” and I stayed in what was, invariably, the worst of living conditions.
Located at the top of a mountain, the thin air caused even the most fit to want for oxygen after walking only a hundred meters. We acclimated eventually, after a week of altitude sickness. For that first month, though, simple tasks that should have only taken fifteen minutes would take us nearly a half an hour to complete. Even without the thin air, the steep grade caused its own share of comical missteps. We had to tread lightly, knowing that the only things between us and the bottom of the mountain to stop us were two claymore mines and a single strand of c-wire.
Given its remote location, all food and water had to be airlifted by helicopter. As thus, rations were limited to 2 MRE's and 2 bottles of water per day. The limits on food can be understood. People go to worse extremes while simply dieting. We all lost weight, whether we needed to or even wanted to. Our “Papa Smurf” began looking lighter after only a few weeks. I dropped ten pounds myself. Occasionally, we would receive gift boxes and care packages that contained all sorts of goodies. Ramen quickly became a rare and coveted commodity.
The limits on water were less forgiving. We constantly ran low on water. Water was needed for not just drinking, but bathing and other hygienic tasks as well. Several times, I was forced to make the choice of either drinking my water or rinsing a few layers of dirt off my face. This also made washing clothes difficult as well. We weren’t so dense as to use our drinking water for that, but it just so happened that there was a mountain stream of winter runoff that flowed through the area. The water wasn’t safe to drink for a variety of reasons, to include environmental hazards and tampering. The locals would divert its flow quite often, but when they didn’t we got out the 5-50 cord and red buckets so we could have at least one pair of clean boxers to wear for the next week.
Shaving was not an option, except for when someone of any importance came to the mountain. It wasn’t at all unusual to see us walking around with three weeks growth, which for me translated to nearly a full beard. I would have fun with it though and trim it down to a goatee when we had a surplus of water. Most of the people in the brigade that I have served with barely recognize me without it. Hair cuts were never heard of either. It was mostly because we didn’t care, but partly because neither of us had a whole lot of hair to cut anyway.
We stayed in huts built from mud and stone, with floors that were nothing more than an inch of dust and the ground. The filth in itself made it impossible to stay clean. Every morning I would clean up with a few baby wipes, only to find that I had returned to the same shade of sand brown by walking from one side of the hut to the other. Dirt aside, the archaic nature of the hooch made it also open to every creature that lived in the region. Thus, we had our share of encounters with the local wildlife to include camel spiders, rats and mice, centipedes, wasps, cats, a dog, a few local national militia members, and even a monkey. Goats and donkeys stayed clear.
Still, we did what we could to make it "home." A gym was erected out of old mortar tubes, tension bands and spare lumber. A field shower was built from an empty Hesco basket and wood. PVC piping, angled into the ground, was as good as any urinal. Outhouses didn't come any better than the ones that we built. We made it a double, so one would always be open while the waste was being burned from the other. Makeshift beds, shoddy tables, whatever you could do with 5-50 cord and your poncho in an attempt to make it conditions decent, though by what standards escaped all of us.
One of the toughest conditions to overcome had nothing to do with physical comfort. It was the mental obstacle of boredom that hit us quite hard. We were good for the first week. Fresh in country, we were still wide-eyed and in “tourist” mode. The sights and locale provided enough mental stimulation to keep us occupied. By the second week, we had moved on to a “status quo.” Out came the plethora of movies and games, quelling the boredom and distracting our minds from the reality of our situation. During the third week, we had begun going from person to person asking if they had any movies that we could borrow. External hard drives were passed from laptop to laptop, like a bong is passed at a stoner party.
Everything began drying up on the fourth week. I had watched every movie and every TV series. I had played every game. We started looking for alternatives. I started replaying every game, to see what hidden secrets I could unlock. We began experimenting with our MRE’s, trying new food combinations that would have made anyone’s taste buds shudder. On the fifth week, something just kind of snapped. It was like a barrier had been broken. I now realize that it was our inhibitions or maybe it was just our sanity. Undecidedly, though, we were crazy. A day came that I decided that clothes were no longer necessary and neither were shoes. Thus, my daily attire consisted of PT shorts and flip-flops (body armor and helmet, when required). The MRE Bazooka was invented, as was the talent of breaking rocks.
“Papa Smurf” and I learned more about each other than we ever really wanted to know during this time. When two people eat, sleep and work in the same confined area for long periods of time, eventually one will initiate a conversation. In order to maintain the conversation, more and more subjects keep coming up. After a while, we had covered every subject that was possible for us to cover.
All the while, in this existence, we fought a war. Always vigilant, always on edge, never knowing if that night was going to be the night that the Taliban were going to launch an offensive against us. More than once, I would sit out in the evening and scan the surrounding mountains, spotting new campfires, knowing that bad guys were there waiting to try to kill me.
Those days came too. I have had rockets fired at me. I have had bullets shot at me. People have died both good guys and bad. Some of those dead bad guys are because of “Papa Smurf” and me. There are also some good guys alive because of “Papa Smurf” and me. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t be the hero.
Yes, we existed, but I cannot say that we lived on that mountain. I will always know that a part of me died up there. Stronger or not, for the experience, I know that I will live and exist. I will continue to exist, because existence is life. Life, however, is not merely existence. I see that as I reflect back upon this last fifteen months. Only three were on that mountain, but in the following months other mountaintops came and went. I took something from each of them. Some had worse conditions but for shorter durations. Others had better conditions but with all the bureaucracy that comes forthwith.
Even as I prepare to leave the military and try to create some semblance of a normal life, what I do is not as important as the fact that I am doing it. I am ready to settle down, work a regular job, live in a shoddy apartment and drive my not-so-new station wagon. I am ready to find someone to share life and all the things worth doing in life with. While I love my parents and siblings very much, I need a family of my own. I need to finish school, so I can eventually support the family I plan to have.
People have asked me why I even joined the military in the first place. When I first joined, I said that I needed some time away from home to think and sort my life out. They said that I was wasting my gift of life, that I was throwing away my brilliance. I won’t deny that I was an odd person to see in the army. To this day, I have not been able to find a single soldier, enlisted or officer, which can beat my test scores. Guys like me usually end up in labs or some other place with educated intellectuals trying to solve all the world’s problems. Can any of those so-called intellectuals ever say that they did something though?
The one thing that I can say, something that can never been taken from me, is that I have done something. That makes me alive.
I do too much thinking and not enough doing. Even so, my thoughts are turned towards not thinking, but being. Existence is life. Every organism's primary goal is that of self-preservation. To be is not the question, it is the conclusion.
So, I am thinking about what I must do...to be.
The question arises then, what state of existence would I be? I can survive under the worst of conditions. I have and I will continue to push the tolerances of my mind and body. Yet, as terrifying the things I have done to myself, is that any way to be? Such stresses are fine for tests and shows of bravado, not as conditions of life.
As an example, take the time I spent at OP Warheight in the Nuristan region of Afghanistan. For three months, “Papa Smurf” and I stayed in what was, invariably, the worst of living conditions.
Located at the top of a mountain, the thin air caused even the most fit to want for oxygen after walking only a hundred meters. We acclimated eventually, after a week of altitude sickness. For that first month, though, simple tasks that should have only taken fifteen minutes would take us nearly a half an hour to complete. Even without the thin air, the steep grade caused its own share of comical missteps. We had to tread lightly, knowing that the only things between us and the bottom of the mountain to stop us were two claymore mines and a single strand of c-wire.
Given its remote location, all food and water had to be airlifted by helicopter. As thus, rations were limited to 2 MRE's and 2 bottles of water per day. The limits on food can be understood. People go to worse extremes while simply dieting. We all lost weight, whether we needed to or even wanted to. Our “Papa Smurf” began looking lighter after only a few weeks. I dropped ten pounds myself. Occasionally, we would receive gift boxes and care packages that contained all sorts of goodies. Ramen quickly became a rare and coveted commodity.
The limits on water were less forgiving. We constantly ran low on water. Water was needed for not just drinking, but bathing and other hygienic tasks as well. Several times, I was forced to make the choice of either drinking my water or rinsing a few layers of dirt off my face. This also made washing clothes difficult as well. We weren’t so dense as to use our drinking water for that, but it just so happened that there was a mountain stream of winter runoff that flowed through the area. The water wasn’t safe to drink for a variety of reasons, to include environmental hazards and tampering. The locals would divert its flow quite often, but when they didn’t we got out the 5-50 cord and red buckets so we could have at least one pair of clean boxers to wear for the next week.
Shaving was not an option, except for when someone of any importance came to the mountain. It wasn’t at all unusual to see us walking around with three weeks growth, which for me translated to nearly a full beard. I would have fun with it though and trim it down to a goatee when we had a surplus of water. Most of the people in the brigade that I have served with barely recognize me without it. Hair cuts were never heard of either. It was mostly because we didn’t care, but partly because neither of us had a whole lot of hair to cut anyway.
We stayed in huts built from mud and stone, with floors that were nothing more than an inch of dust and the ground. The filth in itself made it impossible to stay clean. Every morning I would clean up with a few baby wipes, only to find that I had returned to the same shade of sand brown by walking from one side of the hut to the other. Dirt aside, the archaic nature of the hooch made it also open to every creature that lived in the region. Thus, we had our share of encounters with the local wildlife to include camel spiders, rats and mice, centipedes, wasps, cats, a dog, a few local national militia members, and even a monkey. Goats and donkeys stayed clear.
Still, we did what we could to make it "home." A gym was erected out of old mortar tubes, tension bands and spare lumber. A field shower was built from an empty Hesco basket and wood. PVC piping, angled into the ground, was as good as any urinal. Outhouses didn't come any better than the ones that we built. We made it a double, so one would always be open while the waste was being burned from the other. Makeshift beds, shoddy tables, whatever you could do with 5-50 cord and your poncho in an attempt to make it conditions decent, though by what standards escaped all of us.
One of the toughest conditions to overcome had nothing to do with physical comfort. It was the mental obstacle of boredom that hit us quite hard. We were good for the first week. Fresh in country, we were still wide-eyed and in “tourist” mode. The sights and locale provided enough mental stimulation to keep us occupied. By the second week, we had moved on to a “status quo.” Out came the plethora of movies and games, quelling the boredom and distracting our minds from the reality of our situation. During the third week, we had begun going from person to person asking if they had any movies that we could borrow. External hard drives were passed from laptop to laptop, like a bong is passed at a stoner party.
Everything began drying up on the fourth week. I had watched every movie and every TV series. I had played every game. We started looking for alternatives. I started replaying every game, to see what hidden secrets I could unlock. We began experimenting with our MRE’s, trying new food combinations that would have made anyone’s taste buds shudder. On the fifth week, something just kind of snapped. It was like a barrier had been broken. I now realize that it was our inhibitions or maybe it was just our sanity. Undecidedly, though, we were crazy. A day came that I decided that clothes were no longer necessary and neither were shoes. Thus, my daily attire consisted of PT shorts and flip-flops (body armor and helmet, when required). The MRE Bazooka was invented, as was the talent of breaking rocks.
“Papa Smurf” and I learned more about each other than we ever really wanted to know during this time. When two people eat, sleep and work in the same confined area for long periods of time, eventually one will initiate a conversation. In order to maintain the conversation, more and more subjects keep coming up. After a while, we had covered every subject that was possible for us to cover.
All the while, in this existence, we fought a war. Always vigilant, always on edge, never knowing if that night was going to be the night that the Taliban were going to launch an offensive against us. More than once, I would sit out in the evening and scan the surrounding mountains, spotting new campfires, knowing that bad guys were there waiting to try to kill me.
Those days came too. I have had rockets fired at me. I have had bullets shot at me. People have died both good guys and bad. Some of those dead bad guys are because of “Papa Smurf” and me. There are also some good guys alive because of “Papa Smurf” and me. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t be the hero.
Yes, we existed, but I cannot say that we lived on that mountain. I will always know that a part of me died up there. Stronger or not, for the experience, I know that I will live and exist. I will continue to exist, because existence is life. Life, however, is not merely existence. I see that as I reflect back upon this last fifteen months. Only three were on that mountain, but in the following months other mountaintops came and went. I took something from each of them. Some had worse conditions but for shorter durations. Others had better conditions but with all the bureaucracy that comes forthwith.
Even as I prepare to leave the military and try to create some semblance of a normal life, what I do is not as important as the fact that I am doing it. I am ready to settle down, work a regular job, live in a shoddy apartment and drive my not-so-new station wagon. I am ready to find someone to share life and all the things worth doing in life with. While I love my parents and siblings very much, I need a family of my own. I need to finish school, so I can eventually support the family I plan to have.
People have asked me why I even joined the military in the first place. When I first joined, I said that I needed some time away from home to think and sort my life out. They said that I was wasting my gift of life, that I was throwing away my brilliance. I won’t deny that I was an odd person to see in the army. To this day, I have not been able to find a single soldier, enlisted or officer, which can beat my test scores. Guys like me usually end up in labs or some other place with educated intellectuals trying to solve all the world’s problems. Can any of those so-called intellectuals ever say that they did something though?
The one thing that I can say, something that can never been taken from me, is that I have done something. That makes me alive.
No kills - Take a shot?
I'm in Atlanta right now. Soon, I will be on my way to Kuwait. From there, I will return to Afghanistan.
I'm somewhat looking forward to it.
Kinda want to get back to my team. Time to get back to work, ya know?
I just brewed chai tea in my hotel room.
I'm somewhat looking forward to it.
Kinda want to get back to my team. Time to get back to work, ya know?
I just brewed chai tea in my hotel room.
Yeah, the test didn't take into account for war zones...
DEAD AT 74
heart attack
The Hilbert spaces hurt my head.
Not really a physical tired. I just don't feel regenerated. I want to stop thinking. I want to forget some things. A lot of things. I'm supposed to be relaxing. More lately, just feels like I'm hiding.
My car has some new dents, because of me and my right fist.
I've discovered that I can't wear rings on my right hand. Knuckles are too fat. The ring goes on with a bit of persuasion. Getting them off, however, is something that I'll probably have to fix in the next few days.
Take that last sentence out of context, I'll kill you.
I've completed most of my list. I'm still trying to figure out how I'm taking it all back with me. Got some awesome quantum physics textbooks. Also found my old calc books. Not that I'll get any time to actually study them, but I like to feel proactive.
My car has some new dents, because of me and my right fist.
I've discovered that I can't wear rings on my right hand. Knuckles are too fat. The ring goes on with a bit of persuasion. Getting them off, however, is something that I'll probably have to fix in the next few days.
Take that last sentence out of context, I'll kill you.
I've completed most of my list. I'm still trying to figure out how I'm taking it all back with me. Got some awesome quantum physics textbooks. Also found my old calc books. Not that I'll get any time to actually study them, but I like to feel proactive.
No kills - Take a shot?
Boredom has set in. Usually happens whenever I'm on leave. Compounded by the fact that it's Labor Day weekend and all my friends are in other cities/states/continents. I thought of visiting them, but that's the trouble with coming home and surprising everyone. It's great fun to see everyone's faces for about 10 minutes. Then they get back to work and whatever weekend plans they had made.
I've beaten games that I bought here with the expressed purpose of taking them back to Afghanistan with me to quell my boredom in combat. That is how bored I am.
I had a taxpayer-paid vacation ticket to any place in the world of my choosing. I chose to be nice and come home to see the family. I should have gone to Australia, like I wanted to. Japan even. I've always been interested in Japan. Doesn't Australia have something like 107 females to every 100 males? Sounds like pretty good odds to me. Factor in the foreign element, magnified by my soldierly physique...There's actually a chance that I would meet a decent (single) woman in Australia.
I need a party. Something at a lake, with girls and good music. Someplace where I can stop thinking.
All this time and boredom is giving me a chance to think. That is the last thing I want to be doing.
Thinking leads to regret. Regret leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. Suffering leads to me causing damage to whatever inanimate object happens to be laying about. With my fists. Should have done that after bowling, not before. Bowling with swollen knuckles = not fun.
If you need me, I'll be in the clock tower with my rifle.
I've beaten games that I bought here with the expressed purpose of taking them back to Afghanistan with me to quell my boredom in combat. That is how bored I am.
I had a taxpayer-paid vacation ticket to any place in the world of my choosing. I chose to be nice and come home to see the family. I should have gone to Australia, like I wanted to. Japan even. I've always been interested in Japan. Doesn't Australia have something like 107 females to every 100 males? Sounds like pretty good odds to me. Factor in the foreign element, magnified by my soldierly physique...There's actually a chance that I would meet a decent (single) woman in Australia.
I need a party. Something at a lake, with girls and good music. Someplace where I can stop thinking.
All this time and boredom is giving me a chance to think. That is the last thing I want to be doing.
Thinking leads to regret. Regret leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. Suffering leads to me causing damage to whatever inanimate object happens to be laying about. With my fists. Should have done that after bowling, not before. Bowling with swollen knuckles = not fun.
If you need me, I'll be in the clock tower with my rifle.
No kills - Take a shot?
