A Role Realized

I ended up travelling through Lillooet on a whim. I was beginning to feel tired when I passed the turnoff from 29 or 99 or whatever road I was already driving. I pulled over, suddenly second guessing my path, and thinking of Ken, the nice gentleman I met at Ten Mile Lake who recommended the alternate route as a much more scenic option. I flipped a u turn, and decided to take a chance with the potentially snowy, climbing, winding, hair pin turning road through the pristine mountains instead of the safer, flatter version through Cache Creek. It felt right, and so it was.

I slept on top of a mountain, and when I woke I was facing a tiny, sleepy town nestled in the greenery below. I worked my way to the little cafe that promised free wi-fi on its front door, and was greeted by a pearly, genuine smile and shining, kind, blue eyes. His energy transferred easily, and I felt comfortable as the manager of the shop explained to me why his muffins were so much more tasty than any others. I caved, ordering a blueberry one to accompany my typical 'Americano. No Room.'

The manager realized I wasn't from that area quickly. Perhaps it was my lack of "Ya' Knooow" at the end of each sentence, or my round pronunciation of 'about.' Either way, when he showed an obvious interest in my destination, I figured I could get his opinion on the weather situation. The clouds were looking a bit dismal. I wondered, how smart would it be to head up into the mountains with 2 wheel drive? He assured me there would be no snow, simply by voicing the words I wanted to believe. The decision was made. I'd leave Lillooet and head to Vancouver by way of Whistler.

Now, I believe the Universe works in mysterious ways at times, and sometimes you don't quite understand what's happening, but I do fully believe that if you are following a feeling that you believe is real, true, and right, then you are going to do the right things, be in the right places, and achieve that which is meant to be done by you. And even more importantly, you will be happy. Truly, shamelessly happy with yourself. In that happiness, you will grow pride in yourself, begin to unabashedly love yourself, and so on.

I was driving down the highway, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of light. I turned to take in a magnificent waterfall crashing beyond the trees, and I knew I needed to go there...It felt right and so it was.

I turned, following the signs to Shannon Falls, and parked. I grabbed my camera, rain jacket, and locked my car (since I'm now so close to the lower 48 and the signs all warned to hide my valuables and secure my vehicle).

I made the short hike up to the highest viewing point easily. I kept my hood half way back, so the rain drops could kiss my face while I met them with my chin lifted slightly to the soaked maple tree tops. As I reached the landing, I saw a man standing alone, smoking a cigarette, leaning on the wooden railing that was acting as a barrier between the normal visitor and the falls. I smiled at him, charged by the natural electricity my soul experiences when caressed by Mother Nature, and fell into a casual conversation with him as I absentmindedly continued to search for a way to climb up to the base of the falls.

He noticed my intent and asked, "Do you plan to climb up?"

With a light I could feel shining in my eyes, I quipped, "If I can, absolutely!"

He looked towards the falls wistfully a moment, and said, "I've been to the base before, though not the top."

I glanced quickly at him, and immediately responded, "I'm going at least to the base. You should come with me!"

He laughed, shrugged, nodded, and we set off, climbing up a steep embankment of slick mud, pulling our way through the sloped trees, onto the slick rocks surrounded by gurgling rapids. I stopped halfway to turn around and introduce myself to my old friend. We rock hopped and scrambled our way up, Javier and I, balancing on slippery fallen tree trunks, using anything to keep ourselves upright.

We separated when we reached the base, still warm with movement, standing apart in the icy spray, feeling the force of the frigid mist like millions of tiny charged needles, piercing our skin; awakening our senses, making us aware of the power of the crashing falls, the frailty of our bodies, and the short distance separating the two. I stood, facing the wind tossed walls of melted ice, eyes closed, ears and mind open for countless minutes; just listening and feeling. Not just feeling the burn of each gust of water like shards of freshly blown glass bursting on my numbing skin and the thunderous vibrations the raging swirls sent through my body, but also the way my hair was pulled tight and haphazardly against my forehead, and the thrill of sensing the slow trickle of cold moisture that slipped behind my uncovered ear and snaked its way down the curve of my neck, naturally following contours, obediently submitting to gravity on my warm skin. Skin, goose bumping in wake of the chill. I stood still, feeling the steady stream of liquid leaking from my sopping jeans right into the base of the brown XtraTufs into which they were tucked, feeling the creeping cold reaching my toes before the neoprene began its magical warming, but most importantly, feeling my heartbeat, and feeling desperately alive in a world of wonder.

I opened my eyes and looked at Javier, who was leaning into the strong gusts, struggling to stand straight on a particularly exposed rock. His smile was radiant. He looked at me, and I nodded before letting out an unbridled "Suuuuuuuuuuuwiiiiiii!" with my face to the clouds. He did the same, and laughing, climbed down from his dangerous perch.

Javier approached me, and with genuine relief stated simply, "I needed that. Thank you."

Pleased by his happiness, I thanked him for sharing the experience with me.

To this his eyes narrowed, and he said more forcefully, "No. You don't GET it. I REALLY needed this. I should tell you," he hesitated, "...I'm on suicide watch, and when you came up, I was not in a good place."

I looked on patiently as he explained, "I mean, I was in a REALLY bad place. I can't believe I'm here with you! I mean, people don't normally come all the way up. You don't even know me, but you invited me up here with you. I didn't know people like that existed."

I smiled, my heart welling with a reflection of his new radiating positivity, and told him, "Good people are everywhere. Part of the adventure is getting to find them in the most random of places!"

To this he said simply, "Thank you. You saved my life today. Really. Thank you."

I opened my arms to him, and he embraced me. For a moment we stood still, left to left, heart to heart, knowing his world was becoming a better place, and accepting my role had been realized solely because I had followed a feeling that I believed was real, true, and right. And so it was.

Bing! Bang! Boom! Bomb - Day!

It happened October 6th, 2009.

I remember thinking, if we hit an IED and I'm sitting this way, I'll break both of my legs. I adjusted my posture, pulling my feet underneath me, as opposed to wedged under the seat on the other side of the RG-33. I moved my weapon to my side, and gripped it just a little tighter.

Less than thirty seconds later, I was thrown violently against the seat belt straps secured across my shoulders, connecting at my navel, and I found myself thinking, "If the walls hold, I live, if they collapse, I die."

Today was my second Bomb-Day. The second year that I've lived since my truck drove over a 200lb home-made explosives packed roadside bomb. Since that bomb exploded with a direct hit under the driver's side seat of our MRAP. Since we were thrown over sixty-five meters. Since the twenty-two ton vehicle flipped ass over teakettle two and a half times.

My second year alive, with movement newly appreciated.

My second year healing, and becoming exactly who I want to become in person and spirit.

I like that person...

The person I've worked to become.

I am happy. No. I am fucking excited; at peace, and ecstatic all at once. I've found a passion for people, where I had been lacking before. My motto had once been, "I love dogs and horses. I tolerate people," but now the highlights of my life have transitioned into meeting and connecting with the endless droves of amazing spirits in this world. No matter race, creed, upbringing, nor belief system, I truly believe EVERY SINGLE person I meet can teach me something about life, even indirectly. I wake up feeling amazing daily, and appreciate the fact that I'm able to push my body without yet having found its limits, that I can continue to see, breathe, feel, walk, dance, especially run. There is no anxiety, angst, nor drama in my life. I haven't had an argument with anyone for what feels like an eternity, and even that short spat was a direct result of being locked in a car with someone for three weeks without reprieve.

Over the last two years I took the ideals by which I wanted to live, tucked them away, and poured over them intensely over days and nights alone in the wilderness. Alone in my cabin, Alone on long runs with a voice recorder. I fought the common desire to "fix" myself for others, and focused on my personal desires and my needs. I realized over time, although extremely difficult in practice and challenging to maintain without hypocrisy, complete acceptance of people with different views from your own is a lofty but completely worthy goal. I feel at this point I have mostly reached it. Not absolutely. I hate to speak in absolutes.

What are absolutes, anyway?

I admit, I catch myself every once in a while making a bold, unfounded judgement, but the beauty of my progress is: I catch it, address it, and try my best to adjust it. So, I have mostly reached it. This has relieved the vast majority of stress from my life. Accepting people's right to hate, love, read, be bashful, abrasive, correct, incorrect, educated, uneducated, greedy, giving, clothed, naked, upset, happy, crazy, lovely, etc. has been my lofty goal.

It's been a challenge to truly accept and grow to believe wholeheartedly, but I'd say learning to understand that thinking differently is not born from being incorrect or deficient is one of the first steps to loving yourself completely. When you learn that a person who thinks man was created by one great being with white skin, brown hair, and blue eyes is no more correct nor incorrect than a person who believes whole heartedly that Wonderbread is the most incredibly nutritious supplement to your diet, and can accept it as a mere difference in opinion as opposed to right or wrong, you're on your way. How can you tell somebody that something they truly believe is incorrect? How can you tell a culture because they live not how you do, that they are doing something wrong? How can you tell someone's heart to not love the person it loves? You can't. Time to get a sense of humor about life.

I graciously refuse to debate something about which I'm not certain, which I consider interesting, because certainty is fickle in itself. The few things about which I am certain are that I'm in love with me, I'm in love with a man that's momentarily in Texas, using ten percent of the energy you'd use to complain about a situation instead to fix it will generally solve the problem completely, people are inherently good, unless the consequence is life, limb, or eyesight, rushing is generally not necessary, and one should never try to change a single cell of another human being.

I've found myself understanding that I own nothing and nobody, and I'm absolutely unwilling to be possessed. I'm much more comfortable in complete, long periods of solitude, and I find myself seeking them often, nearly every day, to make sure that I'm connecting with the little girl inside without the distractions of socializing. I no longer feel a need for extrinsic praise, congratulations, or credit for the things I do. I've gotten to a point where impressing others means absolutely nothing to me. I showered yesterday for the first time in almost two weeks, and before that it had been another two and a half weeks.

Living in Alaska as a rafting guide will do that to you.

I've worked towards ceasing judgement based on any physical standards (there, of course, are gut reactions that betray me periodically, and the new mission is to squelch them.) I've found what I like about myself, and have worked to grow much stronger in those traits. I'd rather lose an acquaintance (not a friend because an authentic friend would never demand such) than change a part of myself to appease that person's insecurity, and I could only hope that those around me would value themselves just as strongly and unflinchingly.

I've changed my hair color because I like it. It's fun, ridiculous, and at the same time, my peacock-esque blue, green, purple hues act as a natural filter for me, keeping people who would judge me as juvenile and punk on first glance away from me. Thereby creating an existence devoid of judgemental, critical, assuming people. I sold and gave away the vast majority of my worldly possessions, moved into my back seat-less Rav4 and drove myself to this lovely town of Haines, Alaska. Most of the scant things I left behind were destroyed by the recent flooding of central PA, and so now I have truly what I brought with me and barely anything more outside of some protected paperwork and a few boxes of books.

I've recently noticed that checking my Facebook leaves a funny taste in my mouth; something like an unsettled stomach in place of what used to be a fun little way to contact people. It makes me wonder how people are so easily sucked into "world news" and the media's manipulation. It's like watching a really bad chess game unfold, and realizing you can't point out the obvious mistakes because somebody will always get upset that you ruined their strategy. The new ticker in the right upper corner seems like a deliberate attempt at simplifying life's activities into technology...ticking away as a reminder of every moment you waste staring at a glaring computer screen instead of living in the natural world that exists right in front of you.

I've grown to dislike Starbucks. I like mom and pop shops. My heart hurts if I'm ever forced to step into a mall, a Walmart, or a Canadian Superstore. I haven't sat down and watched a full television show in Alaska yet. It's only when I'm in the lower 48 that the sedentary convince me to sit and watch the mindless images on the screen, and even then, I seem to get too anxious to internalize it.

Newsflash: I smoke herb. Sorry if you've known me for much of my life or my entire life and this shocks you. Sorry if you think less of me. I'm not sorry for the fact that I enjoy pot. I'm sorry because you judged me and as a result are going to miss out on a great relationship or friendship as a result of your preconceptions. I used to be completely against alcohol and weed...not anymore. If I must work, I'll refrain, but most evenings and whenever I have the day off, I burn. I don't have dreams that way, but also, I really like it. I drink much more socially than I did in the past. I've grown comfortable with alcohol in a way I never though possible as a younger adult, and quite frankly, I love a drink in the morning, be it a mimosa or Carolans in my coffee. Here's where I'd naturally quip, "Don't judge me," but if you do, quite frankly, I don't care.

I've become very comfortable with myself and my body. I do not blush if I'm seen naked. I often find myself a little irritated that clothes are even necessary in the first place. Just another law taking away a simple freedom to be comfortable in your own skin. I can't even be naked most places if I'd like to. I've done some more art projects, and I see no shame in using the body for art. Those of you who are reading this who haven't been watching the transition over the last two years are probably shocked. Those of you who've paid attention might be thrilled.

I haven't worn a watch since March 2010. I gave my Garmin to my dad, and ceased keeping training logs for my running. I run according to my body's desires. I use no music. I don't even spend money on technical running gear anymore.

I've grown the courage to say exactly what I mean when I want to express myself. There are no silent, brooding moments in my interactions with people. I've begun to demand the same from anyone I keep in my world.

Mostly I've been striving to achieve what I call an authentic life. I have begun to surround myself only with those I prefer. I simply do not associate closely with anyone else. I have become brutally honest about my indifference to the mundane "problems" of consumers. I don't give even a quarter of a fuck what new shoes are on the market, or what upgrades I could get for my Iphone. My phone is $29.00 of pure sophistication. It does what I want it to do. Text and call. Sometimes it even stays connected through an entire conversation.

In working towards my authentic life, I go out of my way to be selfish. I will do something only for me...and this is how I will remain satisfied with my world. What do I mean by this? Simply that if I find myself wanting to do something for the respect, admiration, acknowledgement, acceptance, or approval of others, not because I truly desire or need to do it, I will not lift a finger to complete the task. I will not coddle a person because that individual or observers would like me more for it. I will not run a race so my friends will rave about my speed. I will not climb a mountain to brag about how high it was. I do these things for the sheer, utter enjoyment I glean from the challenge of accomplishing them. I share my stories about them in order to to spread my excitement and energy for them, and for this reason alone. In this way, I truly enjoy everything I do, and rarely can become disappointed by a person's reaction to what I choose to do. It has become very difficult to embarrass me, because that means I would need to be taking other people's opinions of me and my actions, and make them matter to me as my own.

I've realized that anger truly only destroys you, and only you. Allowing yourself to hate and be angry at somebody (especially if you don't exercise authenticity and keep it to yourself) will eat you alive, give you bad energy, and bring you down. What will it do to the other person? Not a damn thing. I realize that you are told this from the time you are a child, but if you really want to understand it, pay attention to yourself. The next time you find yourself sitting next to someone you think is irritating or obnoxious, and you find yourself crinkling your nose, slanting your eyes, furrowing your brow, or throwing nasty looks their way hoping they catch your discontent, stop and focus on how you feel. Notice the negativity, and the effects it has on your energy. Notice how distracted from doing something productive or positive you've strayed, and then breathe, relax, and smile or smirk even. Think. If it won't matter in a month, it shouldn't matter to me now.

So, in this second year of newly appreciated movement, I have much for which to be thankful. Everytime I gasp for breath, feeling the burning lactic acid build in my quads as I push my body harder with each step, I'm reminded that my bomb day could be completely different, and not by choice of my own. I could be spending it motionless in a hospital bed, or seated in a wheel chair, using a cane or without sight. Yet I'm not. I spent the first hour awake teaching a Morning Muscles class to a lovely group of ladies, another hour doing Zumba with even more lovely ladies, ran up a mountain with yet another lovely lady, had tea with a great friend, who also happens to be a lovely lady and who gifted me a pair of silver earrings inscribed "PEACE," and later spent the afternoon and evening with a man the Universe should thank for existing.

Happy active Bing Bang Boom Bomb-Day to me.

A Random Running Rant

I was asked recently how I handle "the pain" of running and exercising to the point of muscle failure by a very close friend. She said that when she feels the pain, her body wants to stop, and curious by my seemingly endless energy, she wanted to understand it.

I replied simply with my regular, "I love it. I love that feeling of movement."

She laughed, "How? Doesn't it hurt?"

I hesitated a moment because I hadn't thought of it that way in a year. I considered the burning in my lungs when I sprint around the track in the chilly air, the feeling of a torrential downpour of icy rain beating against my pink, quickly numbing skin, the wind pushing against me, the hot feeling of sweat sneaking its way behind my eyelids, not being able to speak through ill moving lips, stiff with cold, the clear, intimate sound of my heart's methodical drumming in my ears.

I came to this conclusion.

No. It doesn't hurt. It feels like...life. When the frigid air rushes from the world through my lips, down my throat, and into my lungs, leaving them raw in its icy path, I feel the life in me erupt in pleasure. I become one with my body, in tune with each movement, each change in temperature, each twinge of effort. Its as though I've left my position as passive reader and become the omniscient protagonist describing in detail the scene from each and every muscle's point of view. Suddenly parts of me of which I rarely think, become major players. I notice my toes, the way the hair on my arm reacts to the wind, the burning in my shins with each strike, the slightly tugging extension of my arches before I plant, the pressure on the balls of my feet as I push off, the melody of my ventricals playing life's tune in step.

Becoming aware of these senses, embracing them, and even searching to make them more pronounced has caused me to seek more "pain." There is no moment in which I feel more alive than that in which my heart is racing, and my own effort is what is keeping me moving with nothing but internal functions involuntary. The awareness makes me smile, and the more "pain" I feel, the more aware I become, creating in me an overwhelming joy at being able to feel the burning sensation in my muscles, stretching my smile, often making me skip, yelp, or even break into uproarious laughter in appreciation of life.

That is when I feel luckiest. To have the ability to run, jump, dance, burn, and reach muscle failure. Everything movement. is. a. gift. My mind, while focusing on the pleasure of the sensation of life, brings me, with the same unadulterated, pure awareness to the fact that my ability to do these things is mine still because men who tried to kill me failed epically. It's mine although it has been taken from so many. And then I feel blessed, almost guiltily so. Being conscious of this valuable gift of movement drives me to celebrate it as fully as possible for both myself and for those who aren't able.

I'm able.

Therefore I run.

A Totally Timeless Trip Together

The bright afternoon sun had begun to sink softly down to the horizon, lazily easing into the golden hour, painting everything in its path with the unmistakable warmth distinct to the moment before pastels grow from and reflect on the westernmost water. We walked along the sand to the low cadence of waves lapping the shore, hand in hand, absently people watching while discussing nothing of real importance. I travelled by his side, felt the sand caressing my toes, and noted how quickly he was walking. I found myself grinning at his casual urgency, surprised at my eagerness to keep pace.


He selected a spot and we sat facing the ocean. He pulled me to his chest, and I rested my cheek against him, listening to his heart beat as I watched the sky soften to a light purple hue. We sat this way for some time, with no concept of hours or minutes, no deadlines, no appointments, just the two of us sitting in the cool sand, watching as the Santa Monica Pier came alive in a brilliant flash of green and red.


He lay back onto the sand, and I could no longer make out his eyes from under his dark hood. I studied him as he lay, his shoulders, his neck, his hands folded over his abdomen, his legs reaching to each side of me. I watched and admired, silently thinking of the interesting course the Universe had chosen for our lives: where I had been, where we would go. Just as I studied his contours, so I studied the scenery.


A lean young man armed solely with board shorts and untamed blond curls trotted by, playing chicken with waves who halfheartedly tried to catch him. He left light footprints that quickly disappeared with each approaching wave. I could feel his connection with the earth, and understood his desire to run free, with his toes digging into the packed sand along the surging water's edge. I looked at my own feet, half buried in the soft, dry sand, making the same connection.


As I watched the man continue jogging down the beach, I was struck by the timelessness of the moment. Through history man and nature have joined in a mutual understanding of barefoot running. My thoughts of unity with earth were interrupted by two girls, also running, that moved into view. Both had long, straight, dark hair restrained by elastic bands, headphones in their ears, expensive sneakers on their feet, and glaring white rectangles tied around their arms. I smiled, a little sadly, as they would never understand why I run without music, listening to what my body and mother nature have to tell me.


I watched the new age runners move towards the brilliantly flashing Ferris wheel of the pier. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the smell of him and the sea, both unbridled and tempting my senses. When I opened them, I saw the silhouette of a man approaching. He wore large headphones, and held a long pole in his hand with a round disc at the bottom, which he wove back and forth along the surface of the sand. I chuckled, a silent laugh concentrated in my diaphragm, as I remembered my many hours waving a similar contraption over the sand as a child with my father, searching for something...anything that could be considered valuable. I was suddenly five years old again, watching the man with my full attention, willing him to find a coin so I could share in his revelry. He continued on unsuccessfully, a mere shadow against the brightly lit buildings behind him.


I couldn't help but shake my head slightly as I recognized the past and present brought together over this beautiful man's resting frame in the sand. Tempted to lie with him and listen to his heartbeat once more, I watched him. As if he felt my yearn to touch him, he rose to his elbows, met my eyes, and pushed his way back up to a sitting position, gathered me into his arms, and leaned his forehead against mine.


In that moment, I felt his energy more strongly than ever before, a warm, bright light that travelled through me, awakening every sense, every inch of my being, infiltrating my thoughts, my anxieties, and fears, simultaneously calming and exciting them. His energy coursing through my veins as I felt mine in his.


We stayed that way, eyes closed, feeling each other's light until he turned to me and spoke, "How many more beautiful places will we see together like this?"


"Many, many, many," I smiled.


"Promesas?"


"Te prometo." I leaned my head on his chest, and closed my eyes, listening to the song of the waves over his drumming heart, a moment of timeless perfection.

Stark Stabbing Shame

I saw them as I parked at the ferry terminal running as fast as they could. They stopped, a brown man and a white man, both stocky, both panting, both beaming. The brown man stuck his chest out talking shit about how much faster he was. The white one made excuses...something about the wind, like he'd win if they ran again. I've seen this before many many times. They both wore thin, crudely designed crew cut tan t-shirts. Both sported hair that dared not touch their ears.

When I saw them, part of me was drawn, part repelled. I had the option of grabbing my I.D. or avoiding the subject. I left my I.D. in the car, suddenly relieved my purple heart license plate was facing the opposite direction. What I felt was somewhere between a fleeting pride in brother/sisterhood and a stabbing shame in the same.

I boarded the ship without a second thought of the gentlemen. It was to be a 4.5 hour trip to Juneau on the slow ferry, but it was beginning to look like it might take closer to 5.5 as I sat in the dining hall waiting for the boat to finally leave the dock. My mind drifted slowly through the happenings of the previous weeks, elation, depression, dancing, inspiration, suicide, river, eagles, alcohol, pain, friendships, life, love, meaning, family, and the trip I was about to take...marriage. I let my eyes scan the room. I took time to meet Max, a Frenchman riding the ferry to Ketchikan and Marita, a girl from Austria who'd contacted me on couchsurfing.org desperate for help the morning prior. I also saw Pat and Erin, two of my four hitchhikers I had picked up on my drive from Whitehorse to Haines.

Erin gave me a bracelet she had just made for me in gratitude of the ride for which they had been waiting since morning. I smiled to myself because traveler karma never ceases to amaze me. I will always grin at the red, yellow, and black pattern against my skin, and fondly remember taking them through the border...watching the astonished look on the border patrol officer's face when he asked how we know each other, and I told him we didn't...that they were hitchhikers.

I sat in the solarium on a lawn chair, reading The Help, a book given to me by Katie Farnam in return for The Sound of Music, which I passed to her in South Dakota after she and her mother took care of Tommy and myself in their camper. Katie is the daughter of the camp host at Wind Cave's campground. A brilliantly aware young mind of 11 years, she's a child that reads, travels, camps, bikes, explores, and plays outdoors. A child that doesn't own a cellphone...doesn't WANT a cellphone. SO rare these days. I bet there's no way they could diagnose her with A.D.D. since she's actually outside playing daily, burning energy and not sitting sedentary in front of a television nightly.

Shame. I digress.

I made my way to the bar and sipped a bloody mary while chatting with an Australian man who piqued my interest when he responded to the bartender with a disbelieving, "Come on now! My country's much more developed than that! We've got refrigerators and such! We HAVE ice!" I shook my head. Another American, another silly question. No wonder the rest of the world laughs at us. Pride and shame. Shame reigns the strongest most times.

I left the bar intending to continue reading in the fresh air of the solarium. What is Minny going to do to Miss Hilly? However, I happened upon the brown man and white man from the parking lot on the way. I stopped, knowing I shouldn't. We chatted. I gleaned their names are Marvell and...well, I forgot the other guy's name. They are part of the active guard reserves in Juneau. MPs. They were bragging about their new HMMWVs that were tan colored and uparmored! How exciting! They talked to me as if I wouldn't understand their acronyms. I almost gave myself up when asking questions that I probably shouldn't have known how to ask. I need to work on that. They asked me if I was an investigating Colonel. Me? A Colonel? I guess I'm the first 28 year old female Colonel with blue and purple crazy hair the army's ever seen!

Somehow it came about that I speak languages. The first response from Marvell?

"You should join the army!"

"Why? Because I speak languages?"

"Yeah, you could be an interpreter!"

"Uh...and do what? And go where? Iraq? Afghanistan?"

"Yeah, you'll go, but you'll own it. It'll be nothing."

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? IT'LL BE FUCKING NOTHING? I ALMOST DIED MULTIPLE TIMES! MY FRIENDS ARE FUCKED, OFFING THEMSELVES! MY PARENTS OWN A WATER BOTTLE AND AN ALICE PACK WITH 3 HOLES BLOWN THROUGH IT THAT ONCE BELONGED TO ME! I BARELY SLEEP, AND THE VA COULDN'T GIVE TWO SHITS! IS THIS HOW YOU'RE RECRUITING CHILDREN? WITH STRAIGHT UP LIES? SHAME ON YOU!

Instead, I respond calmly, "No. I'm pretty sure the army's not for me."

He questions this, like he knows something about me I haven't figured out on my own, claiming the army needs somebody like me.

I respond simply, "Wouldn't I have to change my hair color? I'm simply not willing to do that...and I'd have to take off my jewelry. Not an option."

He asks to see my bracelets. he looks at them, completely missing Dick Winters' band and my Wounded Warrior Project band.

Nice attention to detail, Fuck Face.

"You wouldn't part with...those?" he questions disbelievingly.

"Yeah. I don't think it's for me." Simple. Concise.

"Well, I guess you're right. The Army's not for everyone." I'm guessing he realizes I'm not going to be won over.

I shift the conversation to couchsurfing and hitchhiking. Marvell couldn't seem to wrap his mind around helping someone on the side of the road that wasn't a woman who looked like me. This may have been the 100th point when I realized we could probably never see eye to eye on 99.2% of anything we could ever possibly discuss outside of potential good tasting food...although he also told me he didn't like sushi. To that I screamed, "COMMUNIST!!!!" Not really, but almost.

He, however, failed to see these disconnects, probably because he was concerned with the pretty smile I credit solely to my parents. I'm not sure he even noticed its slow transformation into an impatient, patronizing smirk. I was saved by the bell, literally, as we docked in Auke Bay, where I had previously made plans to meet with three very like minded people. People who wouldn't recommend I join the service under any circumstances.

He asked for my number by stating, "You should call me," as if it's a researched and supported fact. Really? Should I? He tells me he wants to know me, and I can't help it. I am compelled to tell him that we are completely different breeds of person. He's confused, and so I decided to write this as a clarification.

I am NOT an aspiring teen looking to become Demi Moore. I'm not dreaming of becoming G.I. Jane. Not anymore. I am now a wounded vet proud to be free of an oppressive institution, Hellbent on repaying the world the debt I feel I incurred by having served one of the most close minded, wickedly corrupt organizations in the world for 8.5 years...Rather 8 years 5 months and 29 days. I embrace my freedom to be who I want to be, wear what I want to wear, as well as travel and change my hair color on a whim. There is no amount of persuading that could convince me otherwise. That's supposedly the perk of a"free country" like America, right? While I could be arrested and labelled a sex offender for having a naked cup of coffee in my own home, I also have the "right" to consider military solutions problems in themselves.

I don't regret any choices I've made in life, but that certainly doesn't mean I am proud of them all.

David Sirota said it best, "Why is violence and murder designed to incite fear and affect political change never called terrorism when it's committed by white people?" There is a stark stabbing shame that comes with an association with an organization promoting terrorism under the guise of fighting it...calling it COIN. Fuck COIN. It's war. It's wrong, and I want no part in it.

Sharing Social Senselessness

The beat enters my soul by way of cartilage canal, caressing smooth curves, coursing through veins, creating warmth, riding the raging current straight to my heart, adding to flexing ventricles a uniqueness recognized only by those living in tune.

It infiltrates my nervous system, rocking my body with rhythm, making my fingers tingle, my feet twitch, tickling and tempting my senses until I can no longer control my excitement.

I burst.

I dance.

He stops mid step, eyes narrowing, judging, confused by my lack of sense. No sense is made dancing in a busy street. Sense is reserved for social norms, for caged hamsters on an endless wheel, for controlled, drugged lab rats in a maze, consistently chasing figments of cheddar.

My smile flashes, genuine. His smirk responds, unsure and hesitant. I laugh. He breaks eye contact, sternly shaking his head. He grunts in disapproval.

I continue to follow my base line.

She stops, noticeably nods, and immediately begins to open her heart with a friendly grin, inviting my energy to ease into her spirit. I watch as she releases the strain of her day, allowing her tensions to slip into the warm spring breeze, to be carried into the clouds, and I know then that we are enjoying the same music.

A Classically Catastrophic Cancer Called Katy

Hiding under a careless facade, she's surprisingly small, loud but timid, bold but meek, laughing but silently whimpering for more than fleeting attention.

She's average. Small frame, large teeth, slight mustache, but has beautiful, even stunning windows to her soul. Except an average passerby may miss her soul completely, distracted by the layers of gaudy makeup marring the view.

She commands attention with her presence, though not her poise. Negative attention will suffice when admiration is absent, and she demands it in a loud declaration of negativity. No matter the subject. No matter the location. People gawk, in awe, though not positively impressed. So small, yet so crass. Startlingly obtuse, yet completely unaware of her condition.

A raindrop is a thunderstorm, a bright day too cold. A smile froth with condescension, a glance full of contempt. She repels most, but attracts a needy select few and to them she clings, a cancerous tumor. Stealing their individuality, she monopolizes their time, cutting them off slowly from outsiders, filling their heads with fresh new negativity, metastasizing faster than projected. The life expectancy of former relationships is cut short by her erratic growth, and her host is left utterly alone, save for her malignant company.

When her host finally recognizes her cankerous presence as the cause of pain, solitude, and angst, it's too late. No amount of intensive care will revive past connections, since severed, shriveled, and decomposed. Suddenly alone and aware, her host is trapped and unhappily disconnected from those that made her smile in the past. With nowhere to go and nobody left to turn, the host is faced with a painful decision. Extract the negativity from her life and begin anew with the involved treatment or continue down the same path knowingly and resign herself to fate. Awareness has changed her perceptions, however, and now the loud, bold, crass, attention seeking facade has ceased being attractive. Now a blaring embarrassment, it has become hard to ignore.

Choosing the operation over certain death of character, the recovery is long, painful, and slow, as the cancer tries again and again to relapse, begging, pleading, lashing out, attacking, harassing, grasping, always threatening. As the host gains her strength of personality back, she is emboldened by the positive change, and finds herself rejecting the dejected tumor more easily than ever. She revels in appreciating a raindrop for its properties of renewal and cleansing, a bright day for the sun's warming effect on the soul. A smile is taken at face value, as a glance is met with a smile of her own. A smile that reflects her renewed health and joy.

The classic catastrophe, however, is in the disease, who sees not what she caused or created, but only her role as the victim. She laments the loss of her host and creates a cacophony, wondering to anyone who will listen why there are so many thunderstorms and cold days in her life. That is until, feeling her pain in a moment of vulnerability, her next host reaches out to her with an unprotected heart.