The Sound of Silence

Sometimes there just aren't words.

There is witty repartee, the written equivalent of the brave face. A necessary deception when revisiting a topic that has been discussed and worried to death over the last several years. And yet, the worry is only about to begin.

Iraq, like death and mortal illness, is a concept that exists for many, or at least for me, only through a Hollywood-like lens, which is to say that it exists not at all. Not in reality. It is a civic thought, a furrowed brow, a distant problem. And then, suddenly, it lands right in your lap and, in an immediate and unseen contortion, sears a hole through your heart, front to back.

I have known for years this was a possibility. He wanted to go. Always said he did. He signed up for the Marine Corps in the middle of a war for chrissakes. And yet I never really believed he would go. Lawyers, in uniform or not, are always the ones with the soft hands. Soft hands do not an effective warrior make. But a strong and determined heart does. And one who chose the path of most resistance and highest level of difficulty long ago, and has always proven himself valiant time and again, is off to prove it "for real" this time.

I believe the kids and the cause - if that cause is to keep everyone in the infantry alive and well - to be better off for his presence. But the peril alone is such a high price to pay, even if the mission were not one fraught with so many misgivings for everyone. His wellbeing, his life, are a toll I simply cannot contemplate, and one which I would refuse to pay.

But I don't get a say in these matters. Frankly, neither does he. What the future holds is unknown. All I can do is pray, to whatever higher power might listen, for his continued safety. And learn to live with the curious combination of shock, fear and pride - an unshakable and lingering feeling of having taken a bracing blow to the gut.

Now whether I am entitled to have any of these feelings is a whole other matter. Most rational people in my life would say no. But this one. I just can't explain it. Never have. Never will. And I don't think I want to - I appreciate that, for all its absurdities, it is one of the few things in my life I have felt more than I have thought. And that is all I have to say about that.

I started this post with the statement that there just aren't words, and then went one to spew forth a thousand of them. Multitudinous as they may be, the statement is still true: There are no words to do him or the situation any true justice.

CaptiOn This

This picture is either incredibly adorable or incredibly disturbing. I can't decide.

Feliz Dia de Santo Valentin

For all the ladies (and all the men that appreciate such things) another pretty picture of a very pretty man.




Yummy.

With regard to my earlier post, the fact that JT brought his mom as his date to the Grammy's only makes his stock rise. The fact that BZ is dating a nineteen year old. Ummm, yeah, well. Good luck with that Barry. Sell, sell, sell.

Wouldn't it be loverly?

On this, the Valentine's Day (mandated by the acts of some medieval English martyr and a couple of ad wizards over at Hallmark worldwide headquarters) of 2007, I have some news: I have absolutely no pronouncements, substantive or self-serving, bitter or beseeching, topical or tertiary, to make about Valentine's day this year.

Searching within myself, I have no power to be wry. I have no desire to be forlorn. Clever sailed a long time ago. Bitter really requires too much effort. And, inspired is something I gave up on in the second grade (well, maybe it was the second year of law school, but one obviously sounds more dramatic than the other.)

So here I am on Valentine's Day absolutely neutral. If you squint at the definition a little (or a lot), it looks as though I have in fact achieved nirvana, an aspirational state of being which is "characterized by the extinction of desire and suffering and individual consciousness." I have no desire, I am not suffering, ergo I have reached a higher plane of existence?

Did I ever mention that I hate flying?

And so the truth reveals itself. For all of the protestations I have made on the occasion of Valentine's Day past (and pretty much every other day of the year), I do not really care to be above the desire and its attendant suffering. I do not need perspective. I want to be one of Love's drunken revelers, or at least to want to want to be one of Love's drunken revelers. But right now, there isn't room for love. No interest in sowing seeds to which I can give no nourishment. Like my freshman year ficas, doomed to become moribund and to remain that way, even if lugged around for the following three years, despite fervant denials, never to be verdant again. There are so many problems with me right now. I need to at least get a handle on what they are.

But I miss at least feeling eligible for love. Love does not choose me. I am not lamenting that. It is just a fact. A fact which is true, in large part, because I have been hiding from Love for a long time. Love is social, but it is not rude and it is generally law abiding, so to expect it to break down my front door, to pry the Chunky Monkey from my hands, and to forcibly remove me from my couch seems a little ridiculous.

I have indulged my inner narcissist for quite sometime now, and it is something which I aim to change. But for this moment, and the next little while, I am going to continue to let it run rampant. I need to let its single-minded focus of self preservation and effective/enjoyable survival carry me to safe and stable ground upon which I can take a deep breath, get a good lay of the land and proceed accordingly.

Right now it isn't Love that is lost. It is me.

Welcome To Wherever You Are

I am here. I am just not exactly sure where here is.

I have been retracing my steps for years, trying to ascertain which direction I have been going. Spent so much time looking at my footprints, I have never really bothered to look at my feet. I have never, even for a moment, bothered to try to understand exactly where I am.

So here I am. Trying to understand. So the experiment is this - without longing backwards or worrying forwards, but rather simply staying put, right here, what is the answer to that three word question "where am I?"

In this moment, I am scared. I am trying not to hide behind words. I am trying to be more straightforward, less obfuscating. (Words, damnit!) It is hard.

I think I have a plan. I am brave. Then I am chicken. Then I am brave again - sometimes because I believe that is what will save me and sometimes because I want to impress and surprise everyone, because no one really believes I can be brave. I do "believe" that I am brave, because in that moment, I can feel what the right thing to do is. I don't like uncertainty. Even if there is greater possibility in the uncertainty, within seconds my glass evaporates to half empty. But in the brave moment, I do feel the greater possibility.

That is another thing, I do feel. I feel a lot more at this moment than I have felt in a long time. I am happy, and then there are shivers of loneliness. I realize I must have been so numb before. Just surviving.

The idea of living, as opposed to surviving makes me happy. The idea of disappointing people - my superiors, my friends, my family - horrifies me. I think my life is currently wearing a designer label, but it doesn't fit very well. It needs to be tailored - european fits and short legs are not often a complimentary combination. I can't believe I never noticed all the extra fabric dragging on the ground as I walk. Suppose that is the problem with being a label whore. The security I seek is not found where I am at. I am certain of that. At this moment, there are no questions as to that. I am a seeker of answers, of security, of the fairytale. That is my holy grail. Those things are true. They are my satisfaction. I know that. I am certain of that. I need to find them. But they are not, and cannot be here.

I am scared. That is true in a 360 degree scan of the event horizon, (Again with the words, damnit!). It is just as true looking down at this spot, here, where I stand, now. I feel a weariness, a tiredness, right behind my eyes. That is from being scared. Sick scared. Anxious scared. Disgusted scared. Frustrated scared. Is it possible to be brave scared?

I think brave scared might work. It might be something I can be. It is something I have been, when things - both good and necessary, though not necessarily both - have happened. Brave scared has been how I felt when the necessary things happen.

Yes, I think brave scared is something I can be. So I can keep my eyes open and my heart full for when the necessary happens.