Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Gannon 09072008 part deux
Heute Abend ist was anderes gewesen. Ich betrachte einige Sterne durch das bewolktes Wetter. Auch die Monde ist halb-belichtete worden. Der Himmel scheint nicht ganz dunkel, als ob der von unten teilweise gelichtet ist.
Tonight, I saw one or two stars peeking from behind the clouds, high up where they don't have shape. Under the drooping canopy of the smoke pit, two marines were incandescently brilliant, to the point where details went away, and they looked like too-bright shadows, as they foot-patroled a humvee down the road. Under the canopy it was nearly black. Someone had the Iridium phone at the big chair because I could see a red glow from the handset. Light shown under the door to the terps' swahut. The humvee seat that someone had mounted on top of some four-by-fours was my perch. The cool water tasted surprisingly good, even though it had been in my thigh pocket for some time. I'd visited the piss tube, then strolled through the moon dust to this perch where I observed the sky's many shades, lighter along the horizon from the town of Husaibah up to the darker parts overhead. Just above my head was a textured mesh of another cammo net over the motor pool. From over the berm on my left, the mosque's singing went on. I think there were two mosques singing because sometimes the notes harmonized, sometimes not. This is my Iraq.
The picnic tables where we sit and smoke, and where I sometimes eat my dinner, a bit closer to the human waste garbage can container than seems tolerable, these tables remained quiet and dark, like wooden servants waiting to serve us whenever we want them. Behind them is the blue storage container that's next to the two small hescos which hold up some four-by-fours and the chin-up bar. During the day, this area is busy. Tonight the terps cooked some veggies on the barbecue. The left the eggplant, onion and tomatoes in the frying pan with a piece of flat bread, baked locally. I tore off a piece and scooped the veggie mix up. Very tasty, this simple food. I think we need to help the terps fix up a kitchen because the chow hall food, while sustaining life, is incomplete. But these are micro-political things that only tangentenally affect my Iraq.
My Iraq is about the texture of the night, dark and quiet, warm and alive with history. This is the place where civilization began. Sure, humans started in Africa, but only as intelligent apes. This is where the zero was invented, where Hamurabi's Code was law. What's here for Americans to think about? Well, once upon a time, this was the navel of the universe, a bit like Los Angeles today. One day, someone from a smugly superior culture may stumble along a dusty LA freeway and wonder how such a backward country gave us Elvis and Coke and cute, freckle-faced ideals of beauty.
Tomorrow we go to the port. I'll be in everyone else's Iraq for awhile. But my Iraq waits for me, patiently, inhaling light and exhaling metaphysical thoughts. It's not black-and-white, since some light remains but these times are mine alone. Maybe like when I was in the Army and had no children to think about, nor even aware of my mortality. So tonight, I'll go to sleep thinking of my children and what's left of my time on this orb. And tomorrow night, my Iraq waits for me, a bit misty, a lot dark, and with singing and dusty smells in the air.
I hope I can find some of this solitude when I leave my Iraq.
Tonight, I saw one or two stars peeking from behind the clouds, high up where they don't have shape. Under the drooping canopy of the smoke pit, two marines were incandescently brilliant, to the point where details went away, and they looked like too-bright shadows, as they foot-patroled a humvee down the road. Under the canopy it was nearly black. Someone had the Iridium phone at the big chair because I could see a red glow from the handset. Light shown under the door to the terps' swahut. The humvee seat that someone had mounted on top of some four-by-fours was my perch. The cool water tasted surprisingly good, even though it had been in my thigh pocket for some time. I'd visited the piss tube, then strolled through the moon dust to this perch where I observed the sky's many shades, lighter along the horizon from the town of Husaibah up to the darker parts overhead. Just above my head was a textured mesh of another cammo net over the motor pool. From over the berm on my left, the mosque's singing went on. I think there were two mosques singing because sometimes the notes harmonized, sometimes not. This is my Iraq.
The picnic tables where we sit and smoke, and where I sometimes eat my dinner, a bit closer to the human waste garbage can container than seems tolerable, these tables remained quiet and dark, like wooden servants waiting to serve us whenever we want them. Behind them is the blue storage container that's next to the two small hescos which hold up some four-by-fours and the chin-up bar. During the day, this area is busy. Tonight the terps cooked some veggies on the barbecue. The left the eggplant, onion and tomatoes in the frying pan with a piece of flat bread, baked locally. I tore off a piece and scooped the veggie mix up. Very tasty, this simple food. I think we need to help the terps fix up a kitchen because the chow hall food, while sustaining life, is incomplete. But these are micro-political things that only tangentenally affect my Iraq.
My Iraq is about the texture of the night, dark and quiet, warm and alive with history. This is the place where civilization began. Sure, humans started in Africa, but only as intelligent apes. This is where the zero was invented, where Hamurabi's Code was law. What's here for Americans to think about? Well, once upon a time, this was the navel of the universe, a bit like Los Angeles today. One day, someone from a smugly superior culture may stumble along a dusty LA freeway and wonder how such a backward country gave us Elvis and Coke and cute, freckle-faced ideals of beauty.
Tomorrow we go to the port. I'll be in everyone else's Iraq for awhile. But my Iraq waits for me, patiently, inhaling light and exhaling metaphysical thoughts. It's not black-and-white, since some light remains but these times are mine alone. Maybe like when I was in the Army and had no children to think about, nor even aware of my mortality. So tonight, I'll go to sleep thinking of my children and what's left of my time on this orb. And tomorrow night, my Iraq waits for me, a bit misty, a lot dark, and with singing and dusty smells in the air.
I hope I can find some of this solitude when I leave my Iraq.
# posted by rich @ 2:48 AM 
