routine

I used to think I needed routine. Then I actually experienced it during this fall semester here at the University of Louisville. Every morning I woke up and had the same breakfast (well, one of two breakfasts - either 10 grain hot cereal with a few scoops of pumpkin puree or one slice of Ezekiel toast, plain, with one coconut milk yogurt, plain, with french press coffee). I went to class. I swam. I worked Friday through Sunday. My spare time was split between studying/reading/researching for class and diverting myself with Netflix. That was my week and I tell you, it was always the same and I was never so happy in my life. Seriously. I had never been so completely content and healthy, mentally or physically. I appreciated it, but didn't realize how much the routine had to do with it until the semester ended and Holiday break hit.

The routine is off.

I spend my off days listlessly cleaning and wandering around my apartment, perhaps changing out of my pajamas, perhaps not. Some days I hang out with some new friends, but I am even convincing myself that perhaps that is destructive to my now apparently fragile psyche. I'm becoming quick to blame everything on anything else, being recklessly blase with my income, increasingly finding myself staring out windows, twiddling with my hair, despondant and at times heartless.

I need my routine back. Passionate teachers, the warm embrace of water in the pool and the honest-to-god ecstasy I feel while swimming - the rhythm of my strokes, the dark echo of the water in my ears; the challenge and quick absorbtion of my classes and materials, the thrill of what's around the corner. I need the stability and structure of the classes - perhaps structure is the word I was looking for instead of routine. God knows that if I didn't have my job then I would have spiralled into a complete trainwreck long ago.

Bad habits are returning. Bad habits and grey thoughts. Listless, uninterested. Stressed, despondent.

**Radiohead, "Climbing Up the Walls"**

My desperate brain is seeking out other forms of structure, reliability and is being sorely dissappointed. At times dissappointing itself.

January 6th classes return, and I'm adding one full time class, for 17 instead of 13 credits next semester. I should be the most blissful person EVER then, right?

Right?

precious things

Precious things, but what do we do with them? I obsessed over these beads for about 4 months while in Afghanistan. The vendor at the bazaar always asked for $75 each bead, or $300 for the entire string (73 beads). I couldn't, wouldn't spend it, but just adored them. So beautiful, precious, unique. There was nothing else like them at the bazaar, yet no one bought them during those 4 months. One day, during the bazaar, during the month of Ramadan when good Muslim men do not eat nor drink between sunrise and sunset, I confess I took advantage. It was September and terribly hot at the dusty bazaar. At 3:50, when the administrators of the bazaar were announcing loudly over loudspeakers for all vendors to pack up and prepare to leave, I approached my bead-seller. It was late in the day, he wanted to leave, perhaps sales had not been what he wanted. He was tired, thirsty, weary. I talked him down to $50 on the entire string of beads.

I still don't know whether I got a good deal or not. I don't know if these beads are valuable or junk. I don't know any of these things except that I like how they feel between my fingers. They are still on the piece of thread that the vendor sold them to me on. I don't know what to do with them except run them through my fingers like a rosary, counting each bead. Worth $50? Who knows.

Precious things with no use but memory stimulus. And for that, they are priceless.

shaking it off

Lately I've been sleeping all night long, no prolonged waking up in the middle of the night for a few hours like the first half of this year. Well last night I woke at 4am, after falling asleep around 1am. I didn't fall back asleep until almost 7am, at which point I was wondering if I shouldn't just be getting up instead of laying there, tossing and turning.

Well I fell asleep.

And the dreams were... unsettling.

I was living in an apartment building. After a while of living there I realized that my ex-boyfriend was living in the same building. This was upsetting because suddenly I was seeing him every day. And he had a child. And he was living with three young women, befitting of his mentality, (he was a completely thoughtless user of young women). So I began to learn to co-exist, and our lives became more and more intertwined. Forced interactions, sharing our homes, always awkward and uncomfortable though.

So our days were going on like this, when one day I was alone at an airport, a very busy one. While there I began to talk to a doctor I knew. I explained some problems (physical) that I'd been having, and he told me, quite frankly, that I just needed to take the pills he was going to give me, and die.

Bummer, I thought, but agreed.

He (or was it a she?) gave me the pills, told me to take them and that I'd be gone in no time. Without delay, while still in the airport, I swallowed the two pills dry and hoped they'd work quickly.

I went back to the doctor and told him/her that I had taken them and asked how long it would take to work and whether it would be uncomfortable (AFTER having taken them). The doc was aghast that I had taken them in a public place like this and warned me to watch myself.

But how can I watch myself when I'm going to die any second now?

Then I began to fret about my high tolerance for medications - what if this didn't work? To pass the time I wandered around the airport terminal looking for a nice, quiet place to die. All these families and people at the airport, none of whom had my problems, all going somewhere or waiting for someone, not knowing that one girl among them was about to die.

I waited an awfully long time with no symptoms, went and asked the doctor, as I was beginning to panic. What if I don't want to die now? What if I just want to try to work with what my problems are? The doctor said too bad, that I had taken the pills and that if they didn't work that he could give me a tincture form of the medication that would pretty much kill me as soon as it touched my lips.

Shuddering I scurried back to my quiet place among the chairs and people to try to write out a will, a note so that my family would know what happened to me.

In the middle of the aisle, while walking back, I suddenly heard a sound like radio feedback, a high, reverberating tone, then I lost all control of my body and fell to the floor on my back. I tried to yell for the doctor but the words wouldn't come out, I was voiceless. I tried to get his attention by waggling my head as my arms and legs were not working, but I had lost control of moving that too. I tried to see where he was, but I then went blind.

Lying in the darkness I prayed for it to just end then, for it to pass and let me be gone. Then I realized I could see the crowds again, and the doctor. My vision was back. Then my head could move. Then I was able to speak, and my arms, legs, and body returned to full function.

The people sitting near me (who had not budged during the entire episode) didn't even look my way as I got up and walked quickly to the doctor to tell him what had happened.

He was nonplussed, told me that apparently I was too resilient to the drugs, and to just wait it out and if he had to, he would kill me when we got back to his office.

I woke up covered in sweat.

sometimes I blink and wonder, where do all the days go?

Photos from Kabul

My external harddrive crashed about 6 months ago, taking with it a heartbreaking amount of photos. I found myself thinking about July of 2008, when I found myself traveling solo to Kabul from the base I was deployed to at the time, Bagram. I realized that the pictures I took on that trip were all gone, and that if I didn't do something to preserve that amazing memory, then it would all be gone.



My shop sent me to Kabul to conduct training at the ISAF headquarters in the heart of the city. I didn't know what the training was, frankly I didn't care. I just wanted away from that horrid shop, and that horrid base. I was scheduled to fly out of Bagram at nine am, the day prior to classes starting. I arrived earlier to the hangar, rather than spend any extra time at the office I worked in (did I mention I hated that place?). After waiting about 3 hours, I found out that the small Blackwater flight I was going to catch a ride on was cancelled because they, "put too much fuel in the plane" and it wouldn't be able to take off again from Kabul because of weight and elevation and other mumbojumbo.



So I happily waited for the next flight that was scheduled to leave 5 hours later. I chose to stay at the hangar again, rather than take the chance of returning to that horrible office. This time, the wait was more entertaining in the hangar because the airmen in charge put on what we called a "Haji film", which was a film that was a blatant blackmarket copy of five zombie movies. With the DVD to keep me company, I found myself watching "Dawn of the Dead" (recent version), "21 Days Later", and those crappy movies starring Mila Jovovich. By the time the entire disk was put on repeat and I was watching Dawn of the Dead for the second time, the announcement came (2 hours after the flight was scheduled to leave) that the plane had gone to Kandahar instead. Sorry!



So I waited for the next flight, with the Zombiefest on repeat a third time. This time at least we found out our 11pm flight was cancelled on time, and were told the next muster wasn't until 5am with a flight leaving at 7am. So I walked the half mile back to my room with my heavy gear, slept for 3 hours, and returned, not quite rested but definately eager to get out of Bagram.



This time it all went well, and before I knew it I was on a C-130, surrounded by members of the Polish army, rattling down the runway, praying that the plane had the gumption to make the massive upward sweep over the Hindu Kush peaks that surrounded our base on all sides.



My class (I still didn't know what it was exactly) started at 9am. Theoretically this shouldn't have been a problem since my flight left at 7am and the flight was all of 10 minutes long. However the question begged to answer, "How does one make the five mile journey from the Kabul International Airport to the ISAF HQ?" I was told there would be shuttles. And frankly I was not all that worried about missing my class, just more worried about the prospect of missing it and having to return to Bagram early. Shudder.



So I found myself alone at the crowded Kabul airport, sitting on a wooden picnic table under a measly awning that protected me from the direct glare of the 100 degree sun next to the dusty parking lot. The lot was jam packed with every imaginable international armored vehicle you could imagine - Polish, Italian, German, Macedonian, French, Korean, Canadian, UK, even the Japanese were representing. After making a disheartening phone call to the ISAF HQ shuttle service, I learned the shuttles came every 2 hours and that since I hadn't reserved a spot, I might not get on a shuttle until 7 or 8pm that night.



Balls to that.


I returned to my vigilant spot next to the pick up/drop off zone on my picnic table. I began watching people closely, looking for the telltale "ISAF HQ" badge that one must wear to gain access to the compound. Sitting on top of the table out of the sun but sweating through my uniform already at 9am I found myself staring at the intricate and beautiful tilework that paved the waiting area floor. (*insert lost photo here*)

Stray cats scurried amongst the up armored vehicles and garbage bins in the parking lot - a rough lot they appeared to be.

A kind German female (civilian type) who had been on my flight walked past and I noticed she was wearing an ISAF badge. She offered me a ride as long as there was enough room when her camerades arrived. Alas, there was not.

So I waited.

Around 11am the ISAF shuttle arrived in the form of a convoy of uparmored Land Rovers led by the soldiers of the British Army. My phone call was confirmed, they politely informed me that there was not enough room on the shuttle but that I should wait the two hours until the next shuttle at 2pm and if that was also full, then I would definately be able to get on the 7pm shuttle. I watched with disdain as the various military personnel from all over the world who HAD reserved spots on the shuttle wedged themselves into the armored vehicles, as the British soldiers professionally and expeditiously chucked all the luggage on top of the massive SUVs. In no time at all they were gone, a cloud of dust settling in their wake.

With renewed vigor I returned to eyeballing every single soldier, sailor, Marine and airman of all nationalities who passed me by, weighing up who was going where and what my odds would be of hitching a ride. A sturdy, strong Anzac (are they still called that?), member of the Australian army with Maori features passed me by wearing an ISAF badge. I leapt.

He informed me that they would happily take me to the ISAF HQ in the event that the VIP whom they were picking up at the airport didn't show up. I would have to wait until the flight he was supposed to be on arrived, and if he wasn't on it then I was gold. He passed the message on to the driver of his vehicle and I sat back anxiously waiting. It was past noon, my class was well on its way, and I had no desire to leave Kabul just yet.

After about an hour, the Australian approached me, told me that the VIP didn't show and that he was going to stay at the airport but that I was free to grab my bags and load up in their Land Rover; that his driver and mates would happily drive me to ISAF.

In record timing I donned my protective gear, threw my bags on top of the Rover, introduced myself to the leaders of the "convoy" and loaded up.

Now keep in mind. Convoys are treated VERY seriously in the Marines. Convoy orders, issued before departing on any sort of convoy can take hours sometimes to be given, and the convoy itself is executed in an extraordinarily controlled manner.

You'll understand then why I was a little anxious when I hopped in the back of this uparmored Land Rover and looked at the driver and his A-driver. The driver, wearing the equivalent of cargo pants, a t-shirt, sunglasses, and two dinner plates strapped to his chest and back which were held together with thin elastic straps that looked like they came off of a garter belt, looked barely old enough to grow facial hair. He took off driving and his A-driver beside him turned around in his seat and began to yell at the three of us in the back seat in a nearly illegibly thick Australian accent. He was just as young as the driver only fully dressed in uniform and full protective gear (no helmet or glasses though). He had wild, dark brown hair that stood out everywhere, like my friend Michael Cameron's bedhead. With a cheeky grin, leaning over the back of his seat he began:

"All right? Ma name's Wookie and I'll be your convoy leada! (at this point the driver took three concurrent potholes deadon and nearly knocked the unhelmeted Wookie unconcious as he slammed backwards against the windshield. Nonplussed, he leaned back against the seat to continue talking to us, this time bracing one arm around the seat). If at anytime durin' the drive to the headquatas we come under attack, just sit tight and let me and Wooly heah take care of it, we'll push through and make our way to the headquarters. If the vehicle is disabled, jest sit tight and Wooly and me will jump out and deal with things and then we'll all musta up and beat feet to the neahest rally point. Allright? Allright!"

I donned my protective glasses, checked my rifle, and suppressed the laughter that was bubbling up at this wildly inappropriate time.

The roads of Kabul were awful, the streets packed with everything from military vehicles, donkey pulled carts to modern day European tin can cars, all packed four abreast zigging and zagging wildly over potholled streets and dazzlingly dangerous roundabouts.

I watched carefully out the windows from my back seat, trying for vigilance but constantly awed by the flocks of women in their brightly coloured burkahs, moving like birds through the bustling streets.

The city was amazingly thriving with vendors and stores and buildings all bustling alongside the busy streets. In too short of time the vehicle arrived in the densly guarded ISAF compound, and my time with Wooky and Wooly was over. Wooky helped me with my bags and before I took off told me, "Ay and if you need anything whoile you're heah, you come to the security buildin' and ask for Wookie, allright?"