Confessions of a Starving Artist

The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy.  ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Ah, the magical inferences that winter brings.  The beauty that comes as the trees and mountain tops gleam with fresh caps of snow.  The celestial tranquility that transcends all things as all the rustles and crackles of autumn’s discard becomes muted in a cold and keeping blanket… save for the malignant justice of the first snowball as it splatters relentlessly into the opening victim of a season of looking over one’s shoulder at every passer-by wearing mittens and a Christmas shit-eating grin.  Oh, ‘tis the season. 

First snow touched down today at Fire Base Morales/Frazier.  It did not last too long, though.  By mid-afternoon it was merely flurries that felt more akin to freezing rain, and by late-afternoon even the clouds had broken from their low-lying patterns into a dense haze at the upper elevations revealing fantastic views to snow covered vistas that only the chosen few will climb… or ride.  Can you picture it?  X-Games: Afghanistan .  That’s extreme… 

In the same vein, regardless of the fact that now, just before the dinner hour, there is not so much as a grain of evidence that this morning their was an inch of snow upon the gravel stones of our central yard; the powered keg was lit.  It began almost innocently. Our JTAC (who’s name is henceforth Filth), almost without thinking, said something over morning chai about how he hopes that it snows enough to have a snowball fight.  Mutterings as foolish as this I would expect at a Democratic Convention or a NATO staff briefing; the fallout was just as great. 

The men can read between the lines.  They understand indecision the way that a chef knows when to add salt.  They may not always smell the fire, but they know when something’s cooking, moreso, when the iron is in fact hot.  I suspect the production of arms and ammo was started soon after the comment was made as the first shot was fired not thirty minutes afterwards.  In accordance with their training, the blow hit my assistant commander, a failed assassination attempt.  The medic acted too hastily and did not have another to re-arm himself with, and due to this neglect, he was white-washed abashedly.  The spectacle was uncontainable and soon all manner of combatants immerged from their respective posts to attempt a parting shot at a fraternal brother.  By the time I arrived the carnage was winding down, or rather, it had moved from a conventional fight to an asymmetrical battle field.  Minutes would pass and a man would lower his guard.  A few more, and the dripping ball of frozen sting would find itself chilling and damp in his hands.  A few more still, and his patience would wane with his guard, letting the ball slip from his hands.  And hour later, the fight was forgotten, and duties resumed… that was when the enemy would strike. 

It has been a long day.  I have not let my guard down, despite the fact that there is no sun left in the sky and the camp is darker than the inside of a cave.  I am familiar with most weapons in the US inventory, and I am fairly certain that we don’t have night vision for snowballs.  Still, the one-upmanship is astounding here and so far, I am one of the targets that has not been struck.  Despite the apparent lack of fodder, I expect that at least one man contained more foresight than I and has cached a few of those pained orbs for freezing in the night, come the day.  Paranoia is only unnecessary if they get you. 

Maybe none of this really happened.  I admit, I’ve not seen a snowball fly today, just heard the ever-constant cries of pain from the surprised victims and the dull thuds of missed rounds on the command center.  Regardless, today I learned this:  it serves no point to pin one’s self indoors during a combat situation, the temptation to explain everything that is unknown is warping and dangerous.  The next storm that comes will find me knee-deep in powder and prepared for a frontal assault, ready to remain engaged wherever they withdraw to.  Pursue the enemy, yes, and fire upon him until his mittens are soaked to numbed hands and the frozen slush runs down his jacket.  There are reprocusions in snowball fights, there is no forgetting!  Santa knows this, so should we!  ‘Tis the fucking season!

Lately, I’ve been flown halfway around the world and have found myself in yet another situation in which there are times when I can hardly believe my luck, my misfortune, and my supreme blessings all within the same instant.  I am curious to how many men of my generation will go to meet God with a spirit that if full of regret and wasted life.  When I wake up each day here in one of the valleys of Kapisa Provience in northeast Afghanastan and stare in blinding awe as the sun crests these massive mountains that could just as easily be called pillars of the very world itself; I do not think that my soul is empty or that I drink from a half-empty cup.  No, my regrets are of a different sort…

Fitting that yesterday was my birthday.  Birthdays are always a reflective time for me; I wonder through past years and think about other places and other friends.  Out of my last five birthdays, I have celebrated in four different countries, and since I was twenty-two, not a single consecutive birthday has been celebrated in the same place.  There were many good times, regardless of how they may have been classified as such as I was undergoing them…  as a digression, I think that this is one of the major losses that our culture has seceded unto itself in return for comforts, opportunity, and wealth: a hard times do not last, and in remembrance one will not feel the sharp sting of the cold winter wind, but rather one will reminisce about the beauty of the snow upon the mountains and the trees or the subtle pleasure of finally reaching the fireside.  These things we have lost, but these are not regrets of mine…

God is on the tips of every man’s tongue in this land; and how could it not!  I have spoken before that nothing will humble a western man like an eastern metropolis, and that’s true.  However, I think that perhaps the world “humble” is not best used in that context anymore.  Seoul made a American feel his insignificance.  The blind self-reliance that is prized by Americans and often (and rightfully) mistaken as arrogance by Europeans washes away amid the sea of Koreans that cover the sidewalks like clone-waves breaking on the endless markets.  No, this place is different.  This terrain is like a massive and barren wasteland; one feels like an ant in a empty aquarium.  There is humility here, futility, surrender.  There is an old God here, and even the blind old men in the villages know it.  I have no relationship with this God or any other who is named, and I wonder if this should worry me.  But I do not regret being without place in His hall.

There is a lot to reflect upon in a short twenty-eight years, many friends to remember, many good times to be recalled.  What becomes evident as I sat with my new brothers, is that many of the friends that I have made, I may never see again, by no faults of anyone or anything save perhaps the grinding stone of Time itself. What’s more, is that I there friends to be made that I will lose, and again watch sunset become sunrise.  Perhaps this is what ages us above all things, what draws us weary and tired and wistful; the knowledge, nay, the understanding that all things end coupled with the consideration that there is futility of starting anew.  Perhaps still, this knowledge and understanding is what drives us; the knowing that we will always lose what is nearest to us and nothing, not even ourselves, gets to tread the road that goes on forever.  Maybe even God realizes this, and on some subconscious level, maybe I too have met God, and we parted ways, leaving even Him in the realm of questionable returns.  My regret is just that:  I may never see or hear from people that unknow to them partially reside, at least at times, in the recesses of my memories like camp fires burning miles and miles off into the darkness of past nights.  There should be a time when I could meet all of them again at a grand affair, around a large flame, with drinks and food and song.  There I would make introductions of all my memories… could that be heaven?  Or just an anniversary dream?  Or both.

But birthdays are no time for melancholy.  No!  It is a celebration of life, of renewal.  And that being said, I reflect and renew on my old pledges and personal ethics:  I will see you all again.  I thank each and every person who has joined me along this long, strange trip and shared in my time.  I miss you one-and-all more than you know despite faults and flaws.  I wish to believe that I tread upon the road that goes on forever, but understand that I more likely walk the path that leads to the clearing, and it may be just around the bend.  Thank you all for the well wishing, and I return them to you all ten-fold.  I will see you all again… and soon.