Adam laid steady and silent on his back, letting the cool breeze of his ceiling fan circulate throughout his room. Linking his fingers together, he cradled the back of his skull with his soft untrained hands, hands that after a few weeks of training would become trained weapons of combat. He thought about the many things that troubled him; that he was unsure of. He pondered about basic training, and whether or not Adam thought that he was mentally prepared enough to go into combat. He reminded himself that this was the purpose of basic training and quickly felt at ease; blissfully gliding off into a deep sleep.
No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the persistent buzzing was completely relentless in perforating the outer surface of his ear drums. They furiously vibrated against one another as they took in the infuriating sound. Adam rolled over on his side and groaned at the clock on his nightstand which shone a radiant, neon, three forty-five. He laid over on his back again and contemplated answering the clocks request. Grasping that he had no say in the matter, Adam slid out of his cocoon of comfort and drunkenly stumbled into the bathroom.
Monday, November 5, 2007
NANOWRIMO 2007 [2nd installment]
Upon his arrival, he had the urge to write. Not to continue his challenge of fifty thousand words, but just so he could lay his thoughts down on paper for his future reference. He began with two words that he often heard accompany the topic of a marine sharpshooter; pink mist.“I used to hear it over and over, in movies, on television interviews with marines come home. It’s a phrase that is so very obvious as to it‘s meaning, yet it allows you, forces you to think. The movie Jarhead was the first place I heard it. The quiver less, highly trained voice of Jake Gyllenhaal, proposed the subject of the sight. I don’t remember the exact quote, but it was something to the affect of ‘the grunt dies for fifteen thousand poorly placed rounds;the sniper dies for that one, perfect shot. One shot, one kill. I wanted the pink mist’.”Unbeknownst to him, Adam had in fact recalled the saying exactly, further proving his ambition and subconscious need to become a scout sniper for his beloved country and marine corp.. he continued to write:“I also watched the news a lot. It seemed, that no matter where in the world our soldiers were they were always under fire, never to help anyone in need lest their adored b52 bombers had laid siege to the territory hours prior. The news casters and reporters would always have this sort of, dazed look on their faces whenever informed of the current situation overseas. It amazed me how shocked they looked to hear the same report that had been divulged by the previous interviewee, almost as to say ‘you mean you’re not the only one out here with the same opinion?!’. Really, how out of line is it that marines and fellow marines all have the same lack of sympathy for every dead, Arab insurgent with an AK-47 at his side, whom seconds earlier decided that he would take their lives? Is it really that unheard of, that two men can no longer have matching opinions? Or was it their job, for propaganda purposes of course, to react accordingly so that the population that just now decided to tune into the progress of their country to see how their freedom is being protected with life after life, could too see the same overused expression?”It was fake, all of it, he knew this and he longed for the interview he might get where he would let the world know what it is like over there. He wondered what he would say. He knew that the reporter would start off with some dumbass question like “do you have confidence in your president?”…“can I say no?”, he would say. That is truly all that would need to be said. It wasn’t an answer of no, just an answer that would make people think, make them realize that it is going to get him in deep ‘s’ if he talks down about his Commander In Chief. He was to sign all of his rights away along with his stacks of release forms and enlistment papers and he knew this too, but being as clever as he was, he knew there would be a way around the censorship.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
NANOWRIMO 2007
[currently untitled] =enstallment one=
He didn’t know where to start. He looked around at the desk before him. An English packet on vocabulary, an inverted guideline rubric, a one inch three ringed binder with a cornucopia of papers from all different courses; though strictly instructed by his teacher to keep them separate. His parents went back and forth about dinner, as he tried to gather his thoughts enough to scribe a few more lines. He checked all too frequently, the word count, which to his dismay still did not break triple digits. He finally realized that checking so often would only hinder his flow of creativity; which was already held back by the highly distressful events of the night before.
Sighing and groaning, he begged for the thoughts to escape him. The harsh reality of ‘what happened, happened’ ate at him ever so feverishly that it brought on an instant headache. His mind pulsed and throbbed. He pondered about taking two Aleve, but quickly dismissed the thought. This triggered another series of thoughts comprised of all the cold, headache and cough medicines he could think of. Realizing that he had once again gone off topic, he snapped back to reality. He sometimes wondered, due to the frequent trailing off of his thoughts, if he had some sort of mental disorder. None that he himself could confidently put a name to of course, but he still wondered. He also wondered why all of a sudden he found no motivation to write. Again looking about the desk, he noticed his backpack. Full of knowledge past learned, or to be learned in the future. Throughout his entire high school career he had struggled with his given courses. He was not unintelligent in the least bit, or at least not according to his superiors. But he seldom put forth the necessary effort to go above and beyond his scholarly duties. He was in fact an exceptionally bright person.
The thoughts that poured out of his head were like water droplets in an eternal waterfall. Ever changing, never ending, no two identical to one another, and all culminated into a single melting pot of inspiration; a pool of… his concentration was abruptly broken by a sounding car alarm outside, and he couldn’t help but wonder, yet again, if he should include the occurrence into his rapidly expanding compilation of text. “But I digress” He spoke aloud to himself, and continued on with his exposé.
Again, he inquired the all-knowing, yet highly discouraging, word count, which now reported back to him a confident numeral of four hundred and thirty one, thirty-three, thirty-five…. He entertained the thought of continuing the previous throughout the following few pages as well as the remainder of the current. “Four hundred and sixty one”, he laughed to himself and carried on. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride for even attempting the rather daunting task of accomplishing fifty thousand words. Oh, how exhilarating it will be when he finally consults the count for the last time, laughing in its face as he adds fifty thousand and one.
He was very comical and witty in this way, finding the smallest things in the spoken words of others, and blowing them into great proportion just to get a laugh. Making people laugh seemed to be one of the most powerful things he was proficient at. With just a bit of conversation, he could calculate one’s personality, and in a bit more of conversation, he could crack them up. Often second guessing himself about what people thought of him, he sometimes masked his real self, for a short period of time, with what he believed was expected of him in society. Going from class clown to outstanding citizen was no easy task, however he rarely found failure in it.
Sitting in a cold sweat at the desk, he began to look around. “Original, original…” he spoke to himself, “original”. Believing that he could actually find it within himself to tackle the task at hand, and eventually complete it, was something in dreams; dreams he wanted to make reality. Always told that he had a natural talent for writing was merely a fraction of his motivation for setting his eyes upon the future completion of the challenge. He felt as though he needed to prove to himself that he could do it. That he could truly accomplish it, and make an example of the most overused cliché of his time; that “you can do anything you set your mind to”.
So, he set his mind to it. Taking in his surroundings for motivation, he began to gradually release the ideas within his head:
“The wind is howling so fiercely outside, that I can hardly retain my thoughts long enough to get them down on the keyboard. The fires along the hills near the canyon have filled the air with a thick saturated smoke, and it seems to blow across the streets in timed intervals. A little wind here and there, then no wind, then suddenly an enormous gust which could only be described as gale-force in nature, to anyone unfamiliar with the true meaning of the phrase, whips up a fierce concoction of leaves and fallen debris; scattering it across the landscape like dislodged blades of grass on a freshly cut field.”
Reading the passage over and over again, he marveled at how relatively simple it was to produce such a vivid image within just a few lines. Making something out of nothing intrigued him, so he started to write again… “The trees whispered sacred passages of nature and…” suddenly hitting a snag, he stopped. “Writer’s block” he thought to himself, “oh, the curse of literature”. Tapping into his mind, he recalled a quote that disproved the entire existence of the legendary “writer’s block”. Failing to remember the entire saying, he gave up. Finding boredom in his current state of mind, he wondered what the count would have to say about the matter. With each new keystroke, he made another prediction as to the count’s next reply. Perhaps, maybe this time, he might even peer at the coveted triple digits. A landmark that he had hoped to achieve within the first session of his writing, but was cut short of due to his primal necessity to sleep. One thousand and fifty.
He thought about the number, which started yet another chain reaction of connected thoughts to manifest within his brain. “Number… I wonder how many poems I have written, how many of those I have memorized, and how many of those I have felt comfortable enough with to share with someone else…”. He recalled one of his first:
“smaerD ladiciuS
There was a kid who was there, and he wasn’t
He was portrayed as normal, but he wasn’t
He wanted a change
He pondered the drastic
Death ran through his mind
Hoping the light at the end of the tunnel was an oncoming train
He wakes up in a cold sweat,
His heart racing,
He can’t catch his breath
The ‘easy way out’ felt cold and heavy in his hand
The crescent piece of steel fits the groove,
The hollow bar of death seemed so perfectly wrong,
Blood, member, and bone
A split second of all sound creates an eternal silence
Darkness
The light has faded to a vague dim,
Once again the cold sweat comes over him,
So he begins to write again,
There was a kid who was there and he wasn’t”
Reading his past works often took him down a path of reminiscence. Though most of them did not directly reflect his emotions at the time they were conceived, their overall tones did. Running his eyes back across the text, he wondered what had him bothered at the time. Although the occurrence was escaping him at the present moment, he knew that it would eventually come to him, so not much attention was given to the thought.
Remembering how cautious he was about anyone finding his writings and reading them brought a chuckle to him. He was so worried that even the slightest misinterpretation of his thoughts on the page would curb ones opinion about him or his state of mind, that he even went so far as to add a disclaimer at the heading of each page, just incase.
“My writings are not always what I think,
or how I feel, though some are.
They are merely thoughts that pop into my head,
and are awaiting elaboration.”
He laughed again, and was pleased that even this passage had a poetic quality to it. Thinking back to the poem, he wondered what people might think of it. Would they understand the meaning of it, what was going on in it? If not, was it because they aren’t insightful enough, or did his writing completely lack all literary coherence? Would anyone realize that there is more to the title than meets the eye and notice that its seemingly foreign nature is nothing but the words completely inverted? Suicidal Dreams was not about him, however the demeanor implied the contrary.
A “kid” goes unnoticed in society and all he can do to escape it is to dream of ways to die. Looking back on it, it was frightfully twisted when taken out of context, most poems were though, and he knew this. Any poem could be turned, twisted, and spun to make the words appear how one wants them to. The same went for literature in novels. He also knew this. He had a theory, one of many in fact, about the analytical essays that he was constantly instructed to write throughout his high school years. He thoroughly believed that what his teachers and professors had preached about within the books to analyze were all lies. How can an author be so brilliant, so meticulous in their work that objects and feelings have been carefully placed within the text so that they ‘symbolize’ more then the specific object? Anything could be twisted, and the “symbolism” in the novels that he read as a student were perfect examples.
Take Ernest Hemingway for example. The incredible novelist that brought our society such works of art as, A Farewell To Arms and The Sun Also Rises. The artist, the writer, the drunk, the womanizer. Is it even comprehensibly possible that a man of such a background could successfully imbed rain into a work as a symbol of death and destruction? Or is it pure coincidence. Why can someone not just, die in the rain? Must everything have symbolism, was a question he often asked himself, and he found it difficult to fail at discovering the same conclusion each time.
This is not why the greatest authors of the latter part of the twentieth century are the greatest authors of the time. He knew this, and was embarrassed that few looked closely enough to develop the same conclusion. No, they were some of the greatest writers of all time because they had the time and patience to pump out five hundred pages of text when he hadn’t the tenacity or fortitude to analyze it in four. Especially using the lies that were symbolism, to prove the point that rain is not simply rain; dust not dust, wind not wind, and the sky not even the sky. On the contrary, they all symbolize anything but what they actually are. A soldier’s “heart might bleed” as he thinks of home, and understandably enough, using the fundamental rule of symbolism, the soldier longs to return home to the ones he loves. But god forbid that the poor man is lying in pain, on a cot, somewhere in Iraq, his heart, literally bleeding as he thinks of being home in an effort to slow his inevitable death. Not the heart you think of when you hear the word. I highly doubt that even the most decorated surgeon, when asked to illustrate a heart, would sketch the true valve-encrusted, veiny mass of soft tissue continually pumping surge after surge of thick red fluid through his coursing vessels.
Society has a keen ability to sugarcoat the reality of the world. Suggesting that a heart is no longer the heart that it was meant to be; that it was named for, but rather is the silhouette of a pair of swans, blissfully beak to beak. “Trash” he thought, “literature lies, in a labyrinth of lies”, he laughed to himself, “now that, is alliteration”.
Of course by now, he had again wandered off topic. His mind was one of the very few he knew of, that trailed off into the distance at the slightest notion of a fresh issue. He welcomed anything with open arms that perked his interest. He had an opinion about even the most controversial topics, and was never the last to voice it. Never the one to recruit others to his viewpoint, he still argued for what he believed in and was admired accordingly for this quality. He started back up where he left off,
“The trees whispered sacred passages of nature and the bushes rustled in agreement. The thick breath restricting smoke hung in the air and the suffocating screams of the foliage could be heard from all locations. I got up and walked out of my front door for some fresh air. Now, I know what you‘re thinking, ‘fresh air?, you just got done explaining how hard it is to breath because of the smoke and you’re going outside for fresh air?’. Well, my answer to you is simply this, yes. Although the smoke was extremely overwhelming inside the house, at least the outside had circulation of the hazardous atmosphere. A tremendous change of pace from the stale, hovering stench of torched timber within my residence.
My dog, one of two actually, pranced across the living room to my call. His name was Jammer. Named so by my father because the little hound was very quick to show his speed as he ‘jammed’ around the tiny pen where we were first introduced. He was an Australian Cattle Dog, also known as a Blue Heeler, because they were born to herd. I remember as a child when my friends and I would ride our bikes, scooters, roller blades, and skateboards joyfully up and down the block, and Jammer, acting on his natural talent to keep all things in order, would sprint around the block nipping at our heels in an effort to guide us back to my yard. His coloring was very authentic as well. Black with silver streaks along his back, abdomen, and the top of his head. Starting about half of the way down his legs, he was tan with the occasional dash of white hair. On his forehead, he had a relatively distinct ‘X’ marking. But my mother of course believed that it was a cross, where “Jesus touched him”. Even though whenever she said this we all interpreted it as a joke, I couldn’t help but wonder if she really truly believed the explanation. I patted him on his head, and watched as his pointy ears perked up at my offering of a bone. I gave him one and began to walk back to the desk when all of a sudden I heard the news.
I knew that it wasn’t uncommon, and quite frankly I, along with most of the country, had become at least partially numb to the blow. Such things should never go unnoticed.”
“Another four” he thought, “…another four”. The phrase rang within his skull. He was so mentally paralyzed by the report that his head ached and throbbed again. His mind, delicately woven membrane contained sensibly within his fractured existence, unable to retain or process any information trying to be stored went suddenly blank. He didn’t care that he didn’t personally know the marines killed in the ambush, all he knew, was that they were Americans, in a war where for every step forward, another two were taken back, they were no more than three years older than he was, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt that he wasn’t there to help.
He didn’t know where to start. He looked around at the desk before him. An "Army of One" pamphlet, an inverted enlistment checklist, a one inch three ringed binder with a cornucopia of papers promoting all of his different options; though strictly instructed by his peers to stay away from the war, he paid no attention to it. His parents went back and forth about their worries and fears for his safety, as he tried to gather his thoughts enough to scribe a few more signatures. He checked all too frequently, the news, which to his dismay still did not lack the topic of death. He finally realized that checking so often would only anger him more than he already was by hearing the highly distressful news the week prior.
Unlike most soldiers, Adam longed to see the front lines of battle. He wanted the exhilaration of taking on enemy fire and returning it ten-fold. He had heard too many stories, about too many marines who were trained in the most advanced combat situations but never saw live battle. Adam didn’t want his training to be just another two hundred thousand dollar a day loss to his country, he wanted it to count for something. When he first decided to be a marine, Adam hadn’t even the slightest idea of what his role would be. He knew he didn’t want to be a reserve, but that was as good of an idea he had about his future career. Chatting with fellow recruits in the waiting room, he met a kid named Jonathan “Jon-Jon” Cooper.
Jon-Jon was about five foot nine, with eyes as green as grass, and long brown hair to his shoulders. When Adam first saw him, he laughed to himself, wondering if Jon-Jon knew of the United States Marine Corp.‘s standard issue haircut. The regional recruitment officer called up a name, and before Adam could blink, Jon-Jon had disappeared through the entrance adorned with “LT. COL. MICHAEL BRASK” in big-block stencil lettering across the door jam. It seemed that Adam wasn’t the only one with battle on his mind.
Upon his exit from the room, Jon-Jon carried a salmon colored slip of paper in his hand. He rounded the corner next to Adam, “smell ya later Moore”, Adam agreed with a slight head nod, and Jon-Jon was gone; or so Adam thought.
About thirty minutes later when he too left the company of Lt. Col. Michael Brask, Adam spotted Jon-Jon across the room and broke out in laughter. There sat Jon-Jon, oh poor little Jon-Jon Cooper, bald as ever with a slight expression of misfortune painted across his face. Hearing Adam’s laughter, Jon-Jon couldn’t resist cracking a smile and joining in on the amusement. “Exchange that slip of paper did ya?” remarked Adam, “yeah…bastards told me it was a lottery ticket, lunch at Zipper‘s?” “Zipper’s it is”.
Private First Class Adam Moore. He repeated it again and again. The two small tags dangled from his neck, and proudly clicked together as he exited the building. Tossing his standard, military issue duffle bag into the bed of his truck, he quickly hopped in and went on his way. Ever since he made the decision to enlist, he had an overwhelming sense of pride in himself. He was now a soldier for his country, dedicated to protecting the freedom of those in the homeland, no matter where he might be. Boot camp was just around the corner, and the thought of trudging through the trenches made him anxious as ever.
At lunch, Adam and Jon-Jon discussed many things, too many to mention all of them, but each just as important than the last. Thing such as why each of them enlisted, why they enlisted in the marines, and what both hoped to accomplish were common topics. Jon-Jon divulged to Adam that he was the next generation in a long line of USMC spotters and marksmen, and that though it was never expected of the next generation to carry in the footsteps of its predecessor, they still did. Jon-Jon had decided that he would pursue his childhood dream of becoming a USMC spotter for his country’s military.
Discussing the topic with Jon-Jon, Adam recalled his earlier years of though, and how he often entertained to idea of becoming a long range sharpshooter. Of course as a child, the purpose of the military sniper never really came into full view. The rush was all he longed for, not the thought of seeing a target, a man with a gun, almost two miles out and ‘popping him off’ like the row of ducks at the arcade. The thought of causing another human’s death as a job just never crossed his mind. Being more educated now, more aware of the world, its ways, and his immediate surroundings, Adam was now thrilled by the thought of the kill. Shaking hands with Jon-Jon, Adam left the restaurant and headed for home.
He didn’t know where to start. He looked around at the desk before him. An English packet on vocabulary, an inverted guideline rubric, a one inch three ringed binder with a cornucopia of papers from all different courses; though strictly instructed by his teacher to keep them separate. His parents went back and forth about dinner, as he tried to gather his thoughts enough to scribe a few more lines. He checked all too frequently, the word count, which to his dismay still did not break triple digits. He finally realized that checking so often would only hinder his flow of creativity; which was already held back by the highly distressful events of the night before.
Sighing and groaning, he begged for the thoughts to escape him. The harsh reality of ‘what happened, happened’ ate at him ever so feverishly that it brought on an instant headache. His mind pulsed and throbbed. He pondered about taking two Aleve, but quickly dismissed the thought. This triggered another series of thoughts comprised of all the cold, headache and cough medicines he could think of. Realizing that he had once again gone off topic, he snapped back to reality. He sometimes wondered, due to the frequent trailing off of his thoughts, if he had some sort of mental disorder. None that he himself could confidently put a name to of course, but he still wondered. He also wondered why all of a sudden he found no motivation to write. Again looking about the desk, he noticed his backpack. Full of knowledge past learned, or to be learned in the future. Throughout his entire high school career he had struggled with his given courses. He was not unintelligent in the least bit, or at least not according to his superiors. But he seldom put forth the necessary effort to go above and beyond his scholarly duties. He was in fact an exceptionally bright person.
The thoughts that poured out of his head were like water droplets in an eternal waterfall. Ever changing, never ending, no two identical to one another, and all culminated into a single melting pot of inspiration; a pool of… his concentration was abruptly broken by a sounding car alarm outside, and he couldn’t help but wonder, yet again, if he should include the occurrence into his rapidly expanding compilation of text. “But I digress” He spoke aloud to himself, and continued on with his exposé.
Again, he inquired the all-knowing, yet highly discouraging, word count, which now reported back to him a confident numeral of four hundred and thirty one, thirty-three, thirty-five…. He entertained the thought of continuing the previous throughout the following few pages as well as the remainder of the current. “Four hundred and sixty one”, he laughed to himself and carried on. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride for even attempting the rather daunting task of accomplishing fifty thousand words. Oh, how exhilarating it will be when he finally consults the count for the last time, laughing in its face as he adds fifty thousand and one.
He was very comical and witty in this way, finding the smallest things in the spoken words of others, and blowing them into great proportion just to get a laugh. Making people laugh seemed to be one of the most powerful things he was proficient at. With just a bit of conversation, he could calculate one’s personality, and in a bit more of conversation, he could crack them up. Often second guessing himself about what people thought of him, he sometimes masked his real self, for a short period of time, with what he believed was expected of him in society. Going from class clown to outstanding citizen was no easy task, however he rarely found failure in it.
Sitting in a cold sweat at the desk, he began to look around. “Original, original…” he spoke to himself, “original”. Believing that he could actually find it within himself to tackle the task at hand, and eventually complete it, was something in dreams; dreams he wanted to make reality. Always told that he had a natural talent for writing was merely a fraction of his motivation for setting his eyes upon the future completion of the challenge. He felt as though he needed to prove to himself that he could do it. That he could truly accomplish it, and make an example of the most overused cliché of his time; that “you can do anything you set your mind to”.
So, he set his mind to it. Taking in his surroundings for motivation, he began to gradually release the ideas within his head:
“The wind is howling so fiercely outside, that I can hardly retain my thoughts long enough to get them down on the keyboard. The fires along the hills near the canyon have filled the air with a thick saturated smoke, and it seems to blow across the streets in timed intervals. A little wind here and there, then no wind, then suddenly an enormous gust which could only be described as gale-force in nature, to anyone unfamiliar with the true meaning of the phrase, whips up a fierce concoction of leaves and fallen debris; scattering it across the landscape like dislodged blades of grass on a freshly cut field.”
Reading the passage over and over again, he marveled at how relatively simple it was to produce such a vivid image within just a few lines. Making something out of nothing intrigued him, so he started to write again… “The trees whispered sacred passages of nature and…” suddenly hitting a snag, he stopped. “Writer’s block” he thought to himself, “oh, the curse of literature”. Tapping into his mind, he recalled a quote that disproved the entire existence of the legendary “writer’s block”. Failing to remember the entire saying, he gave up. Finding boredom in his current state of mind, he wondered what the count would have to say about the matter. With each new keystroke, he made another prediction as to the count’s next reply. Perhaps, maybe this time, he might even peer at the coveted triple digits. A landmark that he had hoped to achieve within the first session of his writing, but was cut short of due to his primal necessity to sleep. One thousand and fifty.
He thought about the number, which started yet another chain reaction of connected thoughts to manifest within his brain. “Number… I wonder how many poems I have written, how many of those I have memorized, and how many of those I have felt comfortable enough with to share with someone else…”. He recalled one of his first:
“smaerD ladiciuS
There was a kid who was there, and he wasn’t
He was portrayed as normal, but he wasn’t
He wanted a change
He pondered the drastic
Death ran through his mind
Hoping the light at the end of the tunnel was an oncoming train
He wakes up in a cold sweat,
His heart racing,
He can’t catch his breath
The ‘easy way out’ felt cold and heavy in his hand
The crescent piece of steel fits the groove,
The hollow bar of death seemed so perfectly wrong,
Blood, member, and bone
A split second of all sound creates an eternal silence
Darkness
The light has faded to a vague dim,
Once again the cold sweat comes over him,
So he begins to write again,
There was a kid who was there and he wasn’t”
Reading his past works often took him down a path of reminiscence. Though most of them did not directly reflect his emotions at the time they were conceived, their overall tones did. Running his eyes back across the text, he wondered what had him bothered at the time. Although the occurrence was escaping him at the present moment, he knew that it would eventually come to him, so not much attention was given to the thought.
Remembering how cautious he was about anyone finding his writings and reading them brought a chuckle to him. He was so worried that even the slightest misinterpretation of his thoughts on the page would curb ones opinion about him or his state of mind, that he even went so far as to add a disclaimer at the heading of each page, just incase.
“My writings are not always what I think,
or how I feel, though some are.
They are merely thoughts that pop into my head,
and are awaiting elaboration.”
He laughed again, and was pleased that even this passage had a poetic quality to it. Thinking back to the poem, he wondered what people might think of it. Would they understand the meaning of it, what was going on in it? If not, was it because they aren’t insightful enough, or did his writing completely lack all literary coherence? Would anyone realize that there is more to the title than meets the eye and notice that its seemingly foreign nature is nothing but the words completely inverted? Suicidal Dreams was not about him, however the demeanor implied the contrary.
A “kid” goes unnoticed in society and all he can do to escape it is to dream of ways to die. Looking back on it, it was frightfully twisted when taken out of context, most poems were though, and he knew this. Any poem could be turned, twisted, and spun to make the words appear how one wants them to. The same went for literature in novels. He also knew this. He had a theory, one of many in fact, about the analytical essays that he was constantly instructed to write throughout his high school years. He thoroughly believed that what his teachers and professors had preached about within the books to analyze were all lies. How can an author be so brilliant, so meticulous in their work that objects and feelings have been carefully placed within the text so that they ‘symbolize’ more then the specific object? Anything could be twisted, and the “symbolism” in the novels that he read as a student were perfect examples.
Take Ernest Hemingway for example. The incredible novelist that brought our society such works of art as, A Farewell To Arms and The Sun Also Rises. The artist, the writer, the drunk, the womanizer. Is it even comprehensibly possible that a man of such a background could successfully imbed rain into a work as a symbol of death and destruction? Or is it pure coincidence. Why can someone not just, die in the rain? Must everything have symbolism, was a question he often asked himself, and he found it difficult to fail at discovering the same conclusion each time.
This is not why the greatest authors of the latter part of the twentieth century are the greatest authors of the time. He knew this, and was embarrassed that few looked closely enough to develop the same conclusion. No, they were some of the greatest writers of all time because they had the time and patience to pump out five hundred pages of text when he hadn’t the tenacity or fortitude to analyze it in four. Especially using the lies that were symbolism, to prove the point that rain is not simply rain; dust not dust, wind not wind, and the sky not even the sky. On the contrary, they all symbolize anything but what they actually are. A soldier’s “heart might bleed” as he thinks of home, and understandably enough, using the fundamental rule of symbolism, the soldier longs to return home to the ones he loves. But god forbid that the poor man is lying in pain, on a cot, somewhere in Iraq, his heart, literally bleeding as he thinks of being home in an effort to slow his inevitable death. Not the heart you think of when you hear the word. I highly doubt that even the most decorated surgeon, when asked to illustrate a heart, would sketch the true valve-encrusted, veiny mass of soft tissue continually pumping surge after surge of thick red fluid through his coursing vessels.
Society has a keen ability to sugarcoat the reality of the world. Suggesting that a heart is no longer the heart that it was meant to be; that it was named for, but rather is the silhouette of a pair of swans, blissfully beak to beak. “Trash” he thought, “literature lies, in a labyrinth of lies”, he laughed to himself, “now that, is alliteration”.
Of course by now, he had again wandered off topic. His mind was one of the very few he knew of, that trailed off into the distance at the slightest notion of a fresh issue. He welcomed anything with open arms that perked his interest. He had an opinion about even the most controversial topics, and was never the last to voice it. Never the one to recruit others to his viewpoint, he still argued for what he believed in and was admired accordingly for this quality. He started back up where he left off,
“The trees whispered sacred passages of nature and the bushes rustled in agreement. The thick breath restricting smoke hung in the air and the suffocating screams of the foliage could be heard from all locations. I got up and walked out of my front door for some fresh air. Now, I know what you‘re thinking, ‘fresh air?, you just got done explaining how hard it is to breath because of the smoke and you’re going outside for fresh air?’. Well, my answer to you is simply this, yes. Although the smoke was extremely overwhelming inside the house, at least the outside had circulation of the hazardous atmosphere. A tremendous change of pace from the stale, hovering stench of torched timber within my residence.
My dog, one of two actually, pranced across the living room to my call. His name was Jammer. Named so by my father because the little hound was very quick to show his speed as he ‘jammed’ around the tiny pen where we were first introduced. He was an Australian Cattle Dog, also known as a Blue Heeler, because they were born to herd. I remember as a child when my friends and I would ride our bikes, scooters, roller blades, and skateboards joyfully up and down the block, and Jammer, acting on his natural talent to keep all things in order, would sprint around the block nipping at our heels in an effort to guide us back to my yard. His coloring was very authentic as well. Black with silver streaks along his back, abdomen, and the top of his head. Starting about half of the way down his legs, he was tan with the occasional dash of white hair. On his forehead, he had a relatively distinct ‘X’ marking. But my mother of course believed that it was a cross, where “Jesus touched him”. Even though whenever she said this we all interpreted it as a joke, I couldn’t help but wonder if she really truly believed the explanation. I patted him on his head, and watched as his pointy ears perked up at my offering of a bone. I gave him one and began to walk back to the desk when all of a sudden I heard the news.
I knew that it wasn’t uncommon, and quite frankly I, along with most of the country, had become at least partially numb to the blow. Such things should never go unnoticed.”
“Another four” he thought, “…another four”. The phrase rang within his skull. He was so mentally paralyzed by the report that his head ached and throbbed again. His mind, delicately woven membrane contained sensibly within his fractured existence, unable to retain or process any information trying to be stored went suddenly blank. He didn’t care that he didn’t personally know the marines killed in the ambush, all he knew, was that they were Americans, in a war where for every step forward, another two were taken back, they were no more than three years older than he was, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt that he wasn’t there to help.
He didn’t know where to start. He looked around at the desk before him. An "Army of One" pamphlet, an inverted enlistment checklist, a one inch three ringed binder with a cornucopia of papers promoting all of his different options; though strictly instructed by his peers to stay away from the war, he paid no attention to it. His parents went back and forth about their worries and fears for his safety, as he tried to gather his thoughts enough to scribe a few more signatures. He checked all too frequently, the news, which to his dismay still did not lack the topic of death. He finally realized that checking so often would only anger him more than he already was by hearing the highly distressful news the week prior.
Unlike most soldiers, Adam longed to see the front lines of battle. He wanted the exhilaration of taking on enemy fire and returning it ten-fold. He had heard too many stories, about too many marines who were trained in the most advanced combat situations but never saw live battle. Adam didn’t want his training to be just another two hundred thousand dollar a day loss to his country, he wanted it to count for something. When he first decided to be a marine, Adam hadn’t even the slightest idea of what his role would be. He knew he didn’t want to be a reserve, but that was as good of an idea he had about his future career. Chatting with fellow recruits in the waiting room, he met a kid named Jonathan “Jon-Jon” Cooper.
Jon-Jon was about five foot nine, with eyes as green as grass, and long brown hair to his shoulders. When Adam first saw him, he laughed to himself, wondering if Jon-Jon knew of the United States Marine Corp.‘s standard issue haircut. The regional recruitment officer called up a name, and before Adam could blink, Jon-Jon had disappeared through the entrance adorned with “LT. COL. MICHAEL BRASK” in big-block stencil lettering across the door jam. It seemed that Adam wasn’t the only one with battle on his mind.
Upon his exit from the room, Jon-Jon carried a salmon colored slip of paper in his hand. He rounded the corner next to Adam, “smell ya later Moore”, Adam agreed with a slight head nod, and Jon-Jon was gone; or so Adam thought.
About thirty minutes later when he too left the company of Lt. Col. Michael Brask, Adam spotted Jon-Jon across the room and broke out in laughter. There sat Jon-Jon, oh poor little Jon-Jon Cooper, bald as ever with a slight expression of misfortune painted across his face. Hearing Adam’s laughter, Jon-Jon couldn’t resist cracking a smile and joining in on the amusement. “Exchange that slip of paper did ya?” remarked Adam, “yeah…bastards told me it was a lottery ticket, lunch at Zipper‘s?” “Zipper’s it is”.
Private First Class Adam Moore. He repeated it again and again. The two small tags dangled from his neck, and proudly clicked together as he exited the building. Tossing his standard, military issue duffle bag into the bed of his truck, he quickly hopped in and went on his way. Ever since he made the decision to enlist, he had an overwhelming sense of pride in himself. He was now a soldier for his country, dedicated to protecting the freedom of those in the homeland, no matter where he might be. Boot camp was just around the corner, and the thought of trudging through the trenches made him anxious as ever.
At lunch, Adam and Jon-Jon discussed many things, too many to mention all of them, but each just as important than the last. Thing such as why each of them enlisted, why they enlisted in the marines, and what both hoped to accomplish were common topics. Jon-Jon divulged to Adam that he was the next generation in a long line of USMC spotters and marksmen, and that though it was never expected of the next generation to carry in the footsteps of its predecessor, they still did. Jon-Jon had decided that he would pursue his childhood dream of becoming a USMC spotter for his country’s military.
Discussing the topic with Jon-Jon, Adam recalled his earlier years of though, and how he often entertained to idea of becoming a long range sharpshooter. Of course as a child, the purpose of the military sniper never really came into full view. The rush was all he longed for, not the thought of seeing a target, a man with a gun, almost two miles out and ‘popping him off’ like the row of ducks at the arcade. The thought of causing another human’s death as a job just never crossed his mind. Being more educated now, more aware of the world, its ways, and his immediate surroundings, Adam was now thrilled by the thought of the kill. Shaking hands with Jon-Jon, Adam left the restaurant and headed for home.
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