Back-dated journal: 12 January 2005

[Written at Camp Atterbury, Indiana; 5 days to departure for Kuwait]

Near tears, or something like that… it’s more the “army version” of what that means – nothing externally to betray my emotional difficulty. Feeling a little Closter phobic, and there’s nothing to be done about it. Except return to my “private” room in a cinderblock building. That shares a bathroom with the stranger on the other side of the wall. The walls of which leak cold air worse than the worthless Mazda I left at home. Alone. Bored. Nowhere to “get out” to…

I tire of
Brown and tan
Men in uniform
Men Uniforms
Sleep deprivation more sleep deprivation too much caffeine
Not enough exercise but pretense of exercise

Missing home
Missing affection
Oh… the affection – the thoughts come pouring in on that note.
I’m tired of negative attitudes
Pointing out things that are negative, for which there is no means of change
I’m tired of manic-depressive, bored, mid-life crisis people who find nothing better to do than vent every fleeting observation that enters their minds for the sheer sadistic goal of recruiting company to their misery. It sucks. That is a mild statement.

It doesn’t help that I make a habit of listening to music that is slightly on the melancholy side by most standards, probably just because I see stuff that is “too positive” or “too perfect” as extremely unrealistic and, therefore, undesirable. On a side note, the “melancholy” material also tends to have more distinctively sophisticated instrumentation. I’m a sucker for instrumentation.

I miss high heels. Swimming suits. BBQs.
Dancing. In real clothes. Sexy clothes.
I miss the couch. And the huge livingroom TV.
I miss Seamus Heaney’s poetry. And reading it to people who care.

I miss having a fucking passport and using it.
I miss not using the fuck word in order to emphasize what I’m saying.

I miss mimosa drinks on holiday mornings. In pajamas. In the family kitchen.
I miss the Uptown Caffe.
I miss playing my guitar. And playing the piano.

I miss wearing whatever I want around the house ----- and whatever I don’t.
I miss late nights and late mornings. Card games with the family.

Photo contests. Property walks with the family.

Expressing my real thoughts – and (god forbid) real feelings on any topic.

The piano. The piano again.

I miss taking a bath or soaking my feet when my muscles are sore.

Playing tennis.
Playing doubles with the family.
Watching Jennifer play tennis. Watching Abe teach Jennifer.
Watching James attempt to kick my butt at tennis. And losing. But laughing anyway.

I miss the fire pit. And the volleyball court.
I’m sure that by the time this is over, I might even say I miss the mosquitoes, but I won’t go that far yet.

I miss my jewelry. Especially my rings.
Comfortable, not thousand-eyelet-lace-up shoes.

Hypocrite. I am. Shouldn’t get so irritated at others for being negative and then do it myself. But this is a rant. To myself. And theirs isn’t. Theirs infringes on other people’s space. This doesn’t.

I don’t feel bad. This makes it better. And maybe someday when I’m famous this will be considered important historical documentation. Then again, probably not. On either count. But the rant is good. It settles the mind. So there it is. One more day of five hundred and god knows how many more…. May they pass quickly.