Chase the Day

Ah, shit yeah... Or "shichya," as it's more phonetically spelled. It's a saying I picked up from an Australian friend of mine and, truth be told, people around my neck of the woods often wonder why the Hell I'm saying it. I don't really know the technical reasons behind why I say it, but I use it for the same reason I use anything: it works.

My closest friends know what a fucking roller coaster I've been on since early 2006. Really, long before that, when I went from having more money than I needed to having almost none at all. Lots of factors played into that - some external, others self-inflicted - but, damn... you learn who your friends are when you're that close to rock-bottom. And I've got the best of the best. It took everyone I know to help sift through four years of utter confusion. Everyone I know and then some, for I'd be remiss in not mentioning the kindness of many strangers. Through it all, I've found that my enemies are insignificant and easily ignored. In fact, I wish them all the very best in life. As long as they don't cross my path again, of course.

I don't know if the Sufi or the Jews coined the term, but "This, too, shall pass," is about as certain as death and taxes. Oh, I've touted it, but I know it now. Some things take a little longer; need a little more patience; require a little more effort, but they'll pass. Tomorrow's coming whether you want it to or not. How fucking wonderful is that?

I've not yet returned to the physical shape I was in back in 2007 - arguably the best shape of my life - but I'm almost there. There's even an added bonus this time. In 2007, my left foot wasn't being properly rehabilitated. It is now... and I can almost taste the mountain air and the deep ocean water I'll be able to expose myself to again. It's been far too long. Someone I admire once said that if you stop moving, you might as well be dead. Yeah... totally. Never mind that moving too fast can kill you, as well. Been there, done that... I'm still here. At least speed is exhilarating.

It's been an eight-year journey to get to where I'm at. Eight insane years. Outside of maybe 1989 - a year that's value in my life has only recently become truly realized - and 2000 - a year I wasn't yet mature enough to deal with - 2002 through 2010 marked the biggest changes in my outlook, my perspectives, my beliefs. Everything I thought I knew up to that point was effectively proven wrong amid a rapid-fire succession of change. Locations, loves, schools, careers, you name it. No stability whatsoever. Just a pretty convincing facade of it. No, that's not entirely true... I was stubbornly resisting change in some fucked up desire to win a conflict I had no business fighting.

Taking chances - something I'd long been accustomed to - suddenly seemed foolish. Instead of rolling with the punches, I tried to hold on to some ill-conceived plan of world domination. It almost fucking killed me - figuratively and literally. But, after 2006, that all slowly started to reverse itself. Four years down, as it were, and four years up.

That's not to say this resurgence was of my own making. Not entirely and, I'll probably have to admit at one point or another, not even primarily. There were plenty of well-placed slaps and kicks in the ass that got me back to where I needed to be... where I should've been the whole time. Slaps and kicks from both friend and foe at the most unexpected - and opportune - of times. Face it, people... those around you know you better than you know yourself. And when strangers figure you out before you yourself do... it's just all the more profound.

So I started taking chances again, albeit in the wrong direction. But, hey, I'm not perfect. And, besides, that first wrong-way chance got my career kick-started. I knew something was wrong, though. I knew I was in the wrong place and for all the wrong reasons. At least I knew, though... which is more than I can say about all of the previous fuck-ups.

And then came 2009. The year I let the career go down the drain. Not sure what I was thinking, but I'm betting it had something to do with my physical location. I was, literally, in a place I did not want to be. But that summer was pretty awesome. Again, the right people - friend and stranger - at the right time. And I got off my ass and took a leap.

Then another. And another.

Now, I'm almost running again. It feels great. The wind is blowing the bullshit out of my hair. That can't happen sitting around. 2011's looking good. I'm sure that everything I think I know will effectively be proven wrong amid a rapid-fire succession of change. But this time, that's the point.

Next April I'm reengaging my quest to visit every country in the world, beginning with a month in Australia. I've always been a creature of momentum, ever since I left the roost at 17. That I got stuck is beside the point. I ain't stuck now. There are some things I want that are elsewhere in the world, and I'm going to go see if I can have them. Carpe diem? Nah...

It's a saying I've used a lot, but its is a false premise; a false promise and a false hope. We are incapable of seizing any day, never mind any other moment in time. But we can, however, chase it. And, as another saying goes, the chase is where all the fun is. C'est la vie.

I'm coming. Shichya.

***

* It's all about the moment, the here and now, and perhaps a little about what comes next. * Go out on a limb once in a while... somebody's there for you, you know. * Having no direction isn't necessarily being lost, though being lost is a prerequisite for finding your way. * The world is moving faster than you ever will, and will move longer than you can possibly be remembered. * a stubborn refusal to accept an overwhelming sense of embarrassment or shame prevents any acknowledgment of such defining moments of life. * The more beautiful it is, the better to kill you with. * The days when a mirror was just another toy are long gone. Reflections no longer reflective, the face staring back just another enemy, allied with the onslaught of time. * A lie is a weight the wind will not carry. * It's remembered how it wants to be. The chase, the trap, an act of foolish bravery or cautious abandon to feel what couldn't be said. * Tomorrow, sunrise will begin the chase again. * Are you going to do something, or are you going to watch it burn? * No worries. The sunrise will greet you in the morning. Whether or not it lights the way home is another matter entirely. * You'll know when the clock is right, for motion and thought will blur into one. And when it does, don't hesitate. * There's a scream of triumph as youthful lust streaks through cloud, finally knowing what it means to fly. * Why you’re smiling as the world starts tumbling finally makes sense. It’s too late to stop, and you didn’t want to, anyway. * If it's going to happen, there's no need to worry about it. * Life's picking up speed, and people you don't want to leave behind are going to be left behind. * The world is a large place until you've seen it all. And when that happens, you can just make up another. * Maybe that's why so many people choose to live in the desert... the grass isn't greener on the other side, because there's only tumbleweed. * Whoever made the mistake of attributing Red to love never understood what it meant to be angry. * Mirages are a good thing to follow, however, when you think about it. They do have a tendency to keep you moving. * Precipitation on the precipice, flowing down the path of least resistance while wondering what it would be like to be a flake of snow. * This is not a summit's peak, but a cliff's edge, and the difference is unimportant. Get up. If you're going to fall, do it here, do it now. There's still air beneath you. *

Tales from the Airborne I: You Gotta Go When You Gotta Go

Imagine yourself a paratrooper. Strapped in on a C-130, 141, or 17, wearing a heavy parachute, an ill-placed reserve parachute, your rucksack across your thighs, your weapon under your left armpit, and your NVGs uncomfortably around your neck. The paratrooper to your left and right are seated next to you so tightly, you can tell if they have a tattoo on their shoulder just from the friction. All of this, and there's no bathroom.

Well, I take that back... there's a bathroom for the air crew.

When flying tactically, you're usually at Nap of the Earth, the air conditioning is off (purportedly to save power), and everybody needs to puke, much less take a piss. And, to make matters worse, I tend to overhydrate in order to avoid leg cramps. Which means I've got to go... and badly. It's going to be okay, I think, it's almost time to jump. I can piss when I hit the dropzone.

The command to stand up. Yes! The command to hook up. Yes! Check static line. Yes, yes! Check equipment. Oh, fuck yeah. Stand by for equipment check. Still with ya! Sound off for equipment check. Okay, okay, okay! All jumpers okay, jumpmaster! Door jumper, stand in the door! HURRY THE FUCK UP!

And then we wait.

And then I just decide to let it all go and piss down my leg. Pulling my pant leg out of my boot, I enjoy the sense of relief as it trickles to the floor.

Now, were the jump safety familiar with me, he wouldn't have said anything, but he wasn't, so he calmly walked up to me and asked if I was okay, and how many jumps I had. I replied, "Plenty. I just had to piss."

He nodded and smiled. We both sort of glanced at the Air Force loadmaster who was going to have to mop my fluids up later. Unspoken joke, as it were. Fuck the Air Force, right?

The safety went back to his position, the green light came on, and out my chalk went.

Lucky for me, the prop blast tends to dry one off real quick.

In My Element

As much as I hate to admit it, North Carolina is a rather big part of me. I mean, shit, I've been here on and off since 1996. And while I can't really stand the Fayetteville/Fort Bragg area, I can't deny feeling a small sense of home there. And, yes, it's no secret that I love Wilmington.

All that said, I love Southern California even more, but therein lies the problem. Over the last decade-plus, my operational network has shifted from the West Coast to the East Coast. What am I talking about? Well, let me lay it out in terms of what I like to call "just desserts."

Okay, for those of you that know, I embarked on a bit of revenge late last year. My favorite enemy dealt me a nice one to the junk, and, admittedly, I'm still reeling a little bit from it. It's really not a big deal anymore, however, and as far as I'm concerned, it's water under the bridge. My favorite enemy was smart about things and made sure she didn't deliver a mortal blow until she was all the way across the country.

Regardless, I tried to get back at her anyway. The problem is that, even though my "operational network" was in place, I was not, and money becomes very important when one is not there to oversee something personally. And, as fight would have it, my favorite enemy took care of my "play money" before she took off. Yes, some of you know of the "other funds" I have access to, but I'm really not allowed to use those for personal ventures.

Long story short, she was smart, very smart, and ultimately the desire to end her was replaced by a strange desire to see her again. Weird, I know, but that's what happens when you work for the government for nine years.

So, in summary: operations intact, funding not.

But, here I am back in North Carolina and the subject of another attempt at being put down. Problem here (for the antagonist) is that I'm here, and so is he. My network is here, and so is he. No more cryptic phone calls to my friends and acquaintances... I can go see them in person. On top of that, I can go see "him" in person. And trust me, "he" isn't going to like that.

Ah, the good old days. Off to war with an enemy well within reach. I am, no doubt this time, in my element, and I can't help but smile a little.

Have a nice day.

A Violent Quiet

When I was 10 years younger, I jumped out of an airplane for the first time. The experience, to say the least, was surreal. It wasn't a skydive, mind you, but a practice jump for the US Army Airborne. I wasn't spending money for the luxury of experiencing an adrenaline rush to tell my friends about, I was being paid to learn how to fall from the sky, gun in hand, and kill people that someone I'd never seen told me to kill. But as I was falling that day, not a thought crossed my mind. Just a pure and violent quiet.

I remember seeing the parachute finishing its blossom, angel wings of silk opening to make sure I lived when I hit the ground. A weapon of cloth ensuring that when I landed, I could get up and shoot my enemies. I remember watching the C-141 flying away from me, dropping fellow would-be paratroopers with the same, deceptive care. But I don't remember the experiencing the pain that I do remember feeling the next day, soreness from a military harness and knees buckling at 20 feet per second. And I don't remember a sound. It was just a pure and violent quiet.

At 18, I knew that would be an experience I would never forget, but I never realized that it would be an experience that would eventually alter my view of the world. I can't remember exactly when, my life is full of anachronistic memories, but the phrase "violent quiet" worked its way into my mind, and attributed itself to almost everything I had experienced.

As a soldier I was often exposed to pictures of the dead. Sometimes the dead lay there peacefully, almost smiling. Other times they lay in pieces. I'll never forget the image of an Iraqi man whose body was in the front seat of his car, his head in the back. In either case, the stillness of the moment betrayed the violence with which the dead met the end of their lives. Even when a man or woman clearly died in their sleep, I knew that at the smallest level, their heart, their mind, their billions upon billions of cells, fought a war that they could not hope to win. A violence, external or internal, followed by quiet.

The tragedy of September 11th hit me in much the same way. I remember watching hours and hours of the footage of the aircraft striking the twin towers, as I'm sure everybody does. But I do not remember the sounds that accompanied the images. For me, America's greatest tragedy of the young 21st Century was, both inexplicably and completely expectedly, a violent quiet.

A couple of years later, I was involved in a car crash that spun my truck around backwards, flipped me over, and slid me into someone's yard. Again, I can't remember a sound. Well, that's not true, I remember my radio playing after I had stopped moving. But during the violence, I didn't hear a thing.

Certain people like to say that we, as a race, are becoming desensitized to the violence around us. They blame it on television, movies, and even music and books. But I don't see it. I can remember the explosions and the dialogue in the most violent of movies. Songs that sing of crime sometimes stick with me, and my imagination paints the most violent pictures of all when I read a book. In real life, however, part of my mind shuts off. I think it has to. I think if it didn't, I would go crazy. I don't remember the screams of people that have died, but I remember the screams of those that lived. Why? I'm not sure, but I think life has a way of being loud when it knows it's going to win. Maybe that's why babies cry so much when they're born. The sound itself reassures those present that life has taken hold, or is taking hold. Death, in noise, is a far off place.

But the quiet... that wonderful sense of solace... merely hides the violence behind it.

We're not desensitized. We're evolving. Our survival lies in our ability to move forward and not live in the past, and overpowering memories of death, true death, hinders that. Think of the veterans from all of humanity's wars. Certain sounds trigger painful memories, some elicit violent reactions. Clearly, these men and women haven't found the peace within themselves. They're still fighting the sounds that shouldn't be there. The sounds that are lying to them, telling them that violence is what life is ultimately about.

Perhaps that's why we need violence to be, in the end, quiet.

Leaving

For the second time this year, I left a job in the film industry. Yeah, this time was just a little PA work, but it was still on a set, was still an awesome time, and is still what I want to do on a permanent basis. But, I left. Not because I wanted to, mind you, but because I couldn't stay on the production for whatever reasons.

Anyway, as I was driving back to the drudgery of the so-called real world, I was hit with sort of an epiphany... leaving, and by that I mean leaving anything, really sucks. Even when where you're at is a really bad spot or who you're with is a really shitty person, leaving still sucks... well, fundamentally anyway. Why? Shit, I don't know... maybe it has something to do with a subliminal recognition of "touch and go." Maybe it's something more, something less... I don't fucking know. I just know that leaving sucks.

It's a good thing that arriving really kicks ass, or we'd be one pathetic species.

But leaving still sucks.

Touch and Go

Every day we wake up, we're somebody else. Our experiences today will be different from the ones that we had yesterday. Our lives are, technically and theoretically, always changing. Nothing stays the same. Nothing remains familiar. Lovers are really strangers, strangers are really friends, and enemies are really those who refuse to admit that we're all more alike than anyone realizes. Life is touch and go. We touch, are touched, wish we were touched, and we move on, sometimes not even knowing why we move on, or even what we've missed.

Touch and go.

Life was interesting a couple of years ago. I was finishing up my first bachelor's degree, activated by the National Guard, and on my way to that fun little desert that is the Middle East. In a small PX in Fort Stewart, Georgia, I mentioned that I needed a padlock for one of my bags, but didn't have the money on me. Later that day, when I wasn't near my bunk, someone found my stuff and left a brand new padlock on my bed. To this day, I have no idea who this person was. Touched. And gone.

I remember getting my dog, Jax, after I got out of the Army. I bought him a doghouse so he could stay dry when it rained and I wasn't home to let him in the house. He wouldn't go in it... not even when I put food inside of it. I talked about this in one of my classes in college. The guy sitting next to me, a tall, gentle-looking black man, said to put sawdust on the floor of the doghouse. For some reason, dogs like the smell and the comfort it provides. I never tried it, but I never forgot the advice, either. Advice from a stranger just trying to help. I feel like shit that I don't know his name. Touched. And gone.

Life moves in circles, in waves, fuck... it even moves in squares and dodecahedrons. Why is it that I am alive, able to walk (although barely), work every day, and play with my dogs and cats? Why is that my replacement in the Army no longer has his foot... or his arm? Why is that I am able to talk to my father, but refuse to because of the friction between us? Why is that several of my friends want so badly to talk to their fathers, but can't because they're no longer living? How can one person leave so indelible a footprint on a person's psyche that a script, a poem, or a song is written due to that footprint? How is it that other people are forgotten as soon as you meet them?

Touch... and go...

We are not a species that can stay in one place long. We move on, from place to place, day to day. Not because of some instinctual need for survival, but because of some higher need for more. Why are we the only species that needs, unequivocally, to love and be loved? Why do we pretend that our pleasant emotions are tied into what's familiar? Why do we assume that our hurtful emotions stem from fear and the unknown?

We are the only living thing on this planet that is capable of touch and go. The only one. Everything else is tied into a natural cycle that repeats itself over and over again, and will repeat itself until extinction or the end of time. Touch and go. There's a reason we're capable of it. A reason so simple to comprehend, most of us refuse to acknowledge it when life seems too much to handle:

No matter what happens to us in life, we can always move forward.

Touched.... and gone...

Where Everything Is

At the end of August I posted a blog entitled "Where Am I Going?" In that blog, I described a conflict in my life that was slowly coming to a head. At the time of its writing, that conflict was everything in my life. Literally everything. The obstacle to my success, the reason for my failure, the unexpected detour away from happiness... all that philosophical crap. Physically, it was the reason for my financial mess. Add all that together... let's just say that I was a tad bit angry.

But... some positives came out of it, as well. And everything, while still not where I want it to be, is finally falling together again... finally rebuilding my path that I've seemed destined to follow since, well, forever. That, in and of itself, is enough for me to smile about. But there's more.

I'm writing again. Those of you who read this crappy blog at least semi-regularly know that I've had a hard time (if not impossible time) trying to write... not just these blogs, but stories, ideas, even poetry and music. All of that is back, or at least coming back. I'm currently working on the best set of lyrics I've ever put to paper... now I just need a song to go with it. My piano is back out of its box... placed there in the first place thanks to a forced depression and an uncharacteristic desire to destroy all that was musical in my life. Script treatments are starting to flow again. I finally have a strong enough inspiration to write again.

I am, despite having been a paratrooper for almost seven years, in the best shape of my life. I've recently lost 30 pounds... my endurance and strength have increased (a little, anyway), and I'm even working on my flexibility. To be honest, my new-found exercise discipline stemmed from moving to SoCal, was reinforced by realizing that I was fat in Wilmington (thanks, Kim... those pictures scarred me for life), and emphasized by the strange fact that exercising until I hurt actually calms me down. Just for some perspective, I've been doing yoga, too, and I find that straight-up exercise keeps me much, much calmer. So much for meditation...

I even finally starting working again. Now, this wouldn't have been an issue had a certain someone not stolen so much money from me, but I've come to realize that keeping busy feels good somehow. Sure, I'm not in the film industry at the moment, and I'm not making as much money as I used to, but the very act of doing something semi-productive keeps my mind off of more serious things.

Why the sudden jump in spirits? Well... like I said before... I have an inspiration. Actually, I have a few inspirations. The most important inspiration I have is, suprisingly (but shouldn't be), me. Ever since I left home after high school, I've been in direct control of my life and nearly everything that happens to it. Me. Reacting, acting, and otherwise contributing to what I want to do and where I want to be. Earlier this year, I lost that control... quite completely, in fact. Not only did I lose that control, I lost the desire to regain it... and that, people, is not a good thing for anybody. But now, that control is returning. Slowly, but surely... and I'm finally in the position again to return it to myself.

So, yeah, I'm the most important inspiration I have. I don't think many people can actually claim that, but right now, I feel that I can. That being said, I needed a catalyst to get to where I'm at... I needed a catalyst to point out how beautiful everything really is. She has a name, this catalyst... she's beautiful, intelligent, sweet, and altogether wonderful. Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend, but she's serving her purpose for me regardless. In the Army, everyone has something they fight for, no matter how subtle... and even though I met her after I left the military, she's what I fought for... and what I now fight for again.

There are more inspirations, but the last one I'm going to mention here are those friends of mine who provided me with the necessary means to sustain myself when I was down. I won't name names, but they know who they are... the two friends who took turns paying my bills for me... the friend who refinanced my high-interest credit cards... the friend who, at no cost to me, gathered the information I needed to pursue legal action against the person that almost destroyed me... the friends who put up with my self-deprecating crap until I, myself, got sick of it... and the friend, my catalyst, who clearly wants to tell me to go away, but won't because she knows I was in a depressed state and is too kind and loving a person to do something like that anyway.

These inspirations, these friends, are everything that I have (along with my pets, of course). Not only that, these inspirations, these friends, are everything that I need... and everything that I really want. All else is icing on the cake of my new life. These inspirations, these friends, are in my head and in my heart.

And that, people, is where everything is.

Sincerely and lovingly,
Jeff

Where Am I Going?

When I was in the Army, I thrived on two things: disinformation and chaos. It wasn't that I liked not knowing what was going on or what was going to happen, it's just that I was very good at handling it. Take it in quickly, adjust necessarily, move on. Did that for almost seven years.

Of course, like all things, I got very tired of it, and wanted something new. I think I got my wanderlust from my father... I'm incapable of staying in one place or doing one thing for very long. In fact, the very act of returning to a place I've already lived constitutes a failure for me. I'm supposed to be moving forward, not in a circle. And, unfortunately, in a circle I presently am.

What's worse is that I'm caught in a flurry of disinformation and chaos. Only now I don't know how to deal with it. A plan nine years in the making was recently destroyed by a person I used to care a great deal for. Used to, mind you... used to. Still, it was the motivational equivalent of getting hit by a truck. Slammed, spun around, and legs broken. In other words: not going anywhere.

I'm incapable of writing seriously, I hardly sleep at night, I can't even commit much time to my job hunt. Why? Well, my mind is caught up planning other things... things I'd rather not publish here.

So? Where am I going? According to the now defunct plan, I was supposed to going to Hollywood, adding money and resume to my quest of becoming a screenwriter and producer. I was supposed to have well over $10,000 to support myself in the initial months. I was supposed to be living with two or three roommates in a small house with a fenced backyard for my dogs. Basically, I was supposed to be happy. This year, more than any other year, was to be the best year of my life.

Unfortunately, my career and life are going nowhere. I'm stuck, screwed, and scratching my way back, not to the top, but just to the standing position. And the only thing I can think seriously about is not even moving forward, but taking care of the person who so efficiently and spitefully took care of me.

Where am I going? Well... where else is a soldier to go?

To war.