So I'm back in Texas, and I don't have to go back to Iraq. I missed my family very much.

I was going to tell the poetic story of my Mother's passing, but I don't feel like talking about that again at the moment, but I will say this:

2 months in Iraq-fine

3 weeks emergency leave in Hawaii- still fine

2 days in Texas- sunburn


...And so my war is over (for now), and I do feel changed by it. It was short, and I never fired my gun, but I did have it always at my side, which is to say the least unusual for an air force member. Most Airmen have never touched a weapon in a warzone, and it's forboding black coldness and smell of dirt and oil was my constant companion. I had the potential to kill everyone and everything, yet simply did not do so. This added another layer of outward stoicism, but outside only. I am not overly emotional, but I feel everything more after feeling nothing for so long, and I choose to embrace this, it sets me apart from the grunting masses, the nascar fanatics I ate and lived and worked with. I love more. I suppose I won the war.

*******update*********

I got to American soil late Thursday, after about 45 hours of flight.///// After frantically packing and praying and giving antd throwing stuff away, getting paperwork stamped, going bavk and forth between agencies (Big up to the International Society of the Red Cross) I made it. I flew from Baghdad to Qatar, and when I got there, I was running around with my ultra-heavy from shuttle bus to shuttle bus, (more paperwork )and I had to throw away a nice coat. The airport was filled with Filipinos, and I had to immigrate into the country in order to use the airport. The exchange rate was weird, I had terrible food at a deli, I flew to Bahrain. Nice airport, more flips. I flew to Amsterdam, and bought the baby some Miffy stuff, which is a Dutch cartoon that she likes that is 50 years old and just started showing in the US in the last year or so. It's ultra-cute, I can see it knocking Hello kitty on her ass, cuz Miffy has a mouth and a dope themesong.

There was absinthe, which I steered away from, and porno everywhere, and I was just in the airport. THere was a photorealist art gallery in the style of Rembrandt, but he sucks. I had a flapjack, which I had read about in herbivore magazine, which are not pancakes, but yummy vegan shortbreadish oat bars. There was evian in aerosol cans, for body moisturizer. I looked for some tattoo magazines, but was overwhelmed by all the exposed flesh at the book stores that I had to run away.
K-den, Amsterdam to LAX. Longest flight ever? I think perhaps, but KLM is my fave new Airline, they had me ad "Vegetarian breakfast sandwich or non?" Not "vegetarian or normal" or "*SIGH* vegetarian sandwhich or normal people sandwich?", but veg was the norm. It's nice to feel included. I watched that documentary "PUNK:Attitude"
which featured interviews and archival footage of Agnostic Front, the Sex Pistols, The CLash, The Damned, the MC5, Ramones, Bad Brains, everyone everyone everyone, it even featured different scenes and subgenres, including no-wave, post punk, 2Tone, hardcore (my favourite part: Henry Rollins explaining hardcore's birth over a montage of Agnostic Front and Cro-Mags "you know that one guy, the 'f*ck yeah' guy, well, hardcore was when HE started HIS band") Straight Edge, the DC scenes, early hiphop, it was great. Then I watched Little Brittain, which I love, and the food was good.

blah blah blah LA sucks.

Hawaii. I'm home, I'm here, I get to the house...

the rest is for later.

night night.

There are about 5 people that have ever read this thing, and most of them know that my Mother is a cancer patient, in chemotherapy. She had a stroke, and if it's serious, I'm going home to be with her. I will not be returning to Iraq.


It's weird that I kind of don't want to go, it makes me feel like a bad Son. If I knew 100% that she'd be OK, I'd finish my time here.

mood= conflicted, see also despair v. optimistic disposition

Everyone that reads this except for Dru is a Christian. Those people, I would ask you to pray about the situation, not about my or my Mother's feelings, but for real situations; my Mother's recovery, for my wits remaining about me, and if I do end up going, for uncomplicated scheduling and logistics of flights, safety and comfort, my Mother's comfort, pray for open lines of communication.

Ok, so I didn't go to the comedy thing. Why? It was moved, so I went to the gym, and IMed most of the readers of this thing.


And apparently Oleg Cassini was alive.

I was studying with my laptop, and a weird looking bug crawled out from under the keys, over my hand, onto my bed, then disappeared.

I'm going to the burnpit/dump tommorow, cuz someone went and brought back a box of books. I'm going to grab a bunch of boxes for out library in the morale tent. Garbage is burnt here, cuz there's no dumps. Most days you can see the huge column of black smoke from anywhere in the coalition complex.

H.E.B. babyfood has glass in it, according to the Stars and Stripes, which is a newspaper in Overseas locations. It's not as Right-Leaning as one would think, but it does syndicate both Arianna Huffington and Ann Coulter. There are some very critical pieces, though, and a section of American life - pictures of kids flying kites, wildflowers, little human interest stories, a welcome break from all the geopolitics and economics. Aaaaaand it has the Boondocks.

I'm going to a USO show tonight, Kathy Griffin and Michael McDonald, better known as 'Stewart from MAD TV'. Should be fun.

I got a book in the mail today, the Oxford Anthology of War Poetry. I requested it on the site www.booksforsoldiers.com. When I return to the States, I'm going to put alot of my old books on the site, and ship them to people who could make use of them. People have sent/ are sending me a sudoku book, a title about the Catholic influence of Germany's actions in the period leading up to WWll, an Edward Gorey book, art supplies, a Peter Sellers Pink Panther boxed set, a Pablo Neruda book, a collection of essays about Hemmingway (not my fave poet), Matzoh.....it's great. I'm thankful.

I miss everybody, especially the Lady and the Baby. The dog, too.


Aaaaaloha.

Cipher

The words spew out with
substance and urgency
unaimed like the wrath of volcanoes
flow continuing to the sea,
becoming islands.
The fog, the acrid stench
of sulfur amalgamated
by the steam of
vaporized salt ocean death
smoke from living moving earth
an onslaught of stimuli
fills your head full, too full.
You cannot breathe.
This air and such heat
brings a not previously encountered
level of consciousness,
sleepy droning,
amazed.
You dive in dreaming of ice cubes
and lemonade
before the splash.
“Time’s up” says the judge
and I hand you the sweatiest,
warmest,
most spit covered microphone
you have ever seen.




Strays

My Mother’s floral-print heart
and hatred of neglect
forced her to wage peace,
as a denim-vest wearing Sister Of Mercy,
ensuring we always had an extra plate of Hamburger Helper
and an empty couch,
or chair, or blanket on
the floor for battered women and
their children,
runaways,
and good kids gone bad.
These transients became Aunts,
Uncles,
Brothers,
Sisters, or
Cousins.
Scraping and scrimping
what was left of our foodstamps
and clipping coupons to make
a cauldron of oatmeal
with powdered milk,
or sunny-side-up eggs from the coop
with fried spam,
we fed the Bangladesh
of our neighborhood.
Urchins orphaned by crack cocaine,
we washed their clothes by hand
while their teenaged parents
stole Betamaxes.
Baking Loaf upon loaf
because we could not afford
the thin squares in bags
that most people called bread
I took to school a 3 inch hunk,
smeared with the guts of a passion fruit
from a wild vine ,
that the kids whose families had cars and shoes
laughed at.
They loved their Nintendo,
but would never know the joy
of having pigs in your yard
or tending the garden
where the beans
that would be next week’s chili dinner grew.
Even at our most destitute,
we still had much to give,
conjuring 100 Dollars
to get Josh’s guitar from the pawnbroker,
the black Stratocaster knock-off
that his mother, no stranger to
the abortion clinic
had put there to apportion
a day’s supply of Crystal Meth.
I did my share to help,
stealing my clothes from the Salvation Army
or selling my beloved books to schoolmates
to buy a KRS-0NE tape
or new inner tubes for my bike.
My Mother is a Libra,
her entire person bearing the icon
of Blind Lady Justice’s scales,
she has lived a life of
giving and love
and when she overcomes the Cancer
that eats her brain
and has sucked her teeth out
with the help of the Chemotherapy
that has sucked her hair out,
she will resume giving until gone,
consumed by the grace and mercy
that drives each little decision,
retired from Active-Duty
to Heaven where
she can be the Child instead of
the Warrior parent,
financier,
tailor,
teacher
and anchor to
The broken children,
Strays that worshipped Tupac Shakur
and whose parents
resented the burden
of their existence.

The Arabic word for mother (Ummi) is the same as the word for uneducated person

I saw a shooting practice target with skatekids as a bazaar...


I went to a Gospel concert in one of Saddaam's palaces, the Al-Faw River palace.It was pretty good!





and I saw an amazingly huge chandelier