One Year

A year ago tomorrow, give or take a few hours, I was at the airport waiting to fly out of Fort Benning.  Dead tired, a little bored with waiting, not really sure what I was getting into.  It was a long wait.  It was the fourth of July and as part of the tradition, the company chaplain read some of the stories of the battle streamers on the guidon.  He said something that I confess I have never checked- "Only one-half of one percent of the citizens of the United States have ever served in her military."  I find that chilling and disturbing, if true.  Not 'serving now'- have ever served.

When the plane rolled out, it was a hot, humid brutal Georgia day... and the entire company was out on the runway, saluting as we flew off.  We were flying high over Boston in the dark and far below we could see the little pops of the Independence Day fireworks. Little pops at 30,000 feet but a beautiful sight from the parks and the harbor.

It's been a big year.  I can now claim stumbling incompetence in even more languages.  Found out things about myself, and things about the world. Rocked some of my "must be trues" and "obviouslies".  Have an entirely new set of things where the educated point of view about what a people believes doesn't match what happens on the ground.  More, too.  Stories that I can't tell.  Things that, I think, would make many of you very proud but silence is one of the rules of this game.  Someday, perhaps.

Not just here.  My lovely wife and remarkable children (really a young man and woman now) have also had a big year half a world away.  Full of challenges and things that might have been disasters.  Watching and listening from a distance I've been awed by their strength and adaptability. They don't need me, which makes the love that we share more true.  I admire them, so that even if there were no ties of blood, no years of shared time, I would still want to know these people and would feel honored to spend time with them.

Yet every time I see her picture, K takes my breath away. Still. After nearly twenty-three years together.  That's not bad.  Friendship and trust and admiration are nice. Passion doesn't hurt, either.

You, too, reading this. You've been a part of this year for me as well. Thank you.

I'm Being the Bad Guy

I feel like a blue meanie.  Normally, I like initiative.  Normally, I think I'm pretty good at finding the common ground and getting dialogue and change.  Not this time. This time I just want to cut my losses and move on.

The problem child came to me through at least two other people who tried to work with him and failed.  First impressions are pretty positive- intelligent, friendly, tries to be helpful.  Over the weeks it has become abundantly clear that every last one of those virtues can be perverted into a vice.  Super intelligent guy... but absolutely incapable of accepting that he has no knowledge of the specialized field we work in. None. Nada. Zip.  Since he can't accept that, he just keeps trying to help.  Like by telling the specialists how to do the job.  Or explaining to others what is going on when he doesn't have a clue himself.

Very, very friendly... which means he has no boundaries, and that doesn't work when you are surrounded by criminals, officers and soldiers. He is completely incapable of understanding when he is getting on someone's nerves even when he is explicitly told.  If you say, "You're getting on my last nerve. Get out of here and leave me alone."  He won't- he will sulk and whine and demand attention.  That was the last straw with the last team he worked with.

And helpful?  He's pleased and honored to make command decisions for you and tell everyone else what you've decided. Without asking you. Just to be helpful.

My usual tactic with this is to be very explicit about what I am doing, what I am saying and why.  Communication is about passing information.  The information is important, the method or my feelings or your feelings are secondary... but your feeling will affect how you listen, so they become a part of the question.  Basically, I use a completely different communication style with a young, eager, up-and-coming junior leader than I do with an old political player who is jealous of his position and worried that someone might know something he doesn't.

I explained the reasoning behind this, pointed out how much progress I've made in some dead zones.  My little friend says, "No. You complicate things too much. You should just talk the way that makes you comfortable."

"But they won't listen."

"Doesn't matter as long as it is easier for you." Which, of course, means easier for him.  Better to fail easily than to win if it takes effort. The pay is the same either way.

I had to give the 'expectations speech'- a list of behaviors expected and lines not to cross and the consequences.  I'm hoping he will listen, but I would place a large bet that he will alternate between sulking and sucking up for several weeks.

On the good side, he's inspired me to write an article on how to utilize an interpreter.

-------------------------------

555th post, according to my dashboard.

55th review on Amazon and the latest is by Bob Orlando.  My head swelleth somewhat.

Stuttering at the Finish Line

I hate everything I write.  Not usually, just now. 

That a sure sign I'm getting to the end of the piece.  It's partially the writing- each identifiable part of the language is leaping at me:  "See spot run." Hits me as VERB(predicate)-SUBJECT- VERB(accusative)... GODDAMN IT! WHERE'S the OBJECT of the sentence? An implied 'You'??!!? Damnit!

It's also physical. The bench I like to write on which has always been just fine was too short yesterday. The keyboard wobbled. Other things suddenly seem important.  I should be beyond playing games with myself and in some things I am. Writing isn't one of them.  What I do will affect a few people. What I write could affect many.  If you write (or paint or perform music or even fight) for others, you are putting your soul out there.  Out to be judged. Possibly to be hammered.  Almost always by people who have never taken a similar risk.

It's not a big deal.  I'm a big boy and if I'm not pretty comfortable with what I have to say I keep my mouth shut. My unconscious is less mature and has its own reasons. When "Meditations" came out it affected my life. Mostly in positive ways but in a few very negative ones.  The monkey part of my brain cringes at the negative. Whatever.

It's go time. A last little push, feedback from some first readers, then re-write and possibly co-opt some research help (it sucks being this far away from my library).

It's Just Life

Last week was dust storms. Yesterday was so clear that the mountain and the shrubs on the mountain looked like they were cut with razors for a drama backdrop.  Today, at noon, the sun was almost directly overhead in an inverted bowl of impossibly clean blue.  All around, 360 degrees, exactly two fingers above the mountains that surround this valley, were scattered white clouds in  a ring.

It was so beautiful that it looked fake, impossible. As if it was all a show for my benefit.  Don't look for the man behind the curtain.  You might see him. Or there may be nothing but howling wind and void.  Still... today was a beauty that no artist would dare put in a painting for fear of being called "too symmetrical" and "unnatural".

Last night was sad songs and missing people I love.  Yesterday was funny- looking for some "yellow vipers" that "jumped right over my head" in a storage area.  Snakes in that storage area? If I was a snake I'd hide out there.  I was more skeptical of the jumping story. On the other hand, I've seen an ostrich in a sweater around here, so who am I to judge?

I evidently got an offer so ribald and improper that my translator refused to translate, just turned bright pink and stumbled all over himself. I need a new translator if I'm missing out on the funny stuff.

And, adding to the list of frisbee and skipping rocks, I may have introduced another pastime to the region- shooting rubberbands.  Strange to meet a man who has worked in an office most of his adult life and had not only never shot a rubberband but never seen it done.  I wonder what is missing in my home environment that would be just as obvious to him if the roles were reversed and he was the stranger.

The Estate Sale

We got our challenge coins today, shiny little bits of metal to commemorate the mission.  Something we will always be able to hold onto and say, "Yeah, I was there."

Al put it in perspective: "When they hold my estate sale there's going to be a shoe box full of this stuff and the bidding will start at two bucks. For the whole box."

Yeah. Think about that. Everyplace I try to take it brings up other things.  Mostly wise, few very comfortable.

But I get a sly smile thinking about a grandkid packing the box and saying, "Mom, what is this? Where the hell did grandpa get all this stuff?" And then sitting back and listening to stories, feeling the weight of the coins or the rings or the stones...

Anyway- Happy Father's day to those who have earned it. Love your kids today.

And Happy Solstice.  Enjoy a long, sweaty, healthy summer.

A Working Professional

Steve just posted something.  It might not appear directly relevant to the stuff I discuss here, maybe, but something in it resonated and it is running parallel to a lot of things that go on here.

"I'm a working pro, I've been involved in half a dozen major universes, doing TV, books, comics, game tie-ins, all like that, I've never spilled the beans before and it would be professional suicide to do so now. Why would you think I would?"

That.  Right there.  I am a working professional.  I get paid to deal with bad guys or to teach other people how to deal with them in high-risk environments.  There is a small chance on any given day that a citizen will get ambushed or targeted by predators. I put myself in that environment. For money.

A working professional in  Steve's profession knows about 'the bible'.  I know about P&P.  P&Ps change and are just as different as bibles; force laws change state by state by country by ROE. 

Steve gets impatient when a newbie writer who has a few Creative Writing classes and some time in a critique group under his belt starts telling the old man how to do it, or telling Steve that he's wrong.  Or that the leader of his writer's group has sold a couple of stories so the newbies opinion is just as valid as Steve's.  Too many aspiring writers take the classes and do the critiques groups and never have careers.

Same same.   Your years in a class or the people that you know who have won competitions or the fact that one of your fellow students or instructors has prevailed in an assault won't impress me.  I could make a list to parallel Steve's above- I've worked booking, max and psych, been ambushed and conducted tactical operations; survived attacks with knives and faced down shotguns, gone hands on in facilities, on the street in homes and in war zones ...  I made a conscious decision to quit counting my Uses of Force at three hundred and that was over ten years ago.

Professional writers don't think about writing the way amateurs do.  Maybe that goes for everything that clearly has hobbyists and professionals.  You do anything long enough, well enough, you start learning things that a hobbyist can't know- which editors hate stories that begin with dialogue; which religions and ethnic groups don't flinch when they see a knife.

And you can write, as Steve did, long pieces that are obvious to you but new and valuable information even for people who consider themselves 'writers'.  Also, as a working professional, you have a better insight into when someone is being stupid... and sometimes it buys you a plane ticket to Hollywood or a chance to statistically show that something your officers need is good, safe and cost-effective.  At least you get funny stories, even if only the other professionals really understand them.

Thanks, Steve, for showing connections. That is always good.

Hurt Me!

Bullshitting after class one day with some of the students, one of them (hey, Bryan!) said, "I knew I found the right place on the first day when I walked in and you were yelling at one of the women, 'Don't just stand there! Hurt me!'"

It seems that I say that a lot more than I should have to. 

We pretty it up and get into some deep denial, but martial arts is about hurting people. Breaking them.  We can tack on a philosophy or pretend that we are kicking people in the head to access some inner peaceful monk, but that's a shitload of rationalization and mental gymnastics.

Then for safety reasons and social reasons and most insidious of all to protect the illusions of rank and mastery and proficiency, everyone practices NOT hurting each other.  Some practice so well that after years of training in a martial art, they are better at not hurting people than they are hurting them.

That often winds up as the first big hurdle with new students. Hurt me.

I'm not stupid about it and we don't go out to tear each other's heads off continuously, but they have to know. Not just how it feels to let go, but what they must feel first in order to let go.  So I put on armor (and/or position pads or telephone books) and let them unload.  Hurt me!

This kind of training has its own objective feedback.  You know you have a deeply damaged student when he or she hits the padded bad guy and looks back to the instructor to see if it was 'right'. Possibly the classic example of 'making sensei happy'. Right is knocking the wind out of me or knocking me back or, even better, knocking me flat on my back.  It's right there, objective, undeniable.

It's not hard. Power generation, power stealing and structure combine even at low levels of proficiency and a small woman can break bones. If she lets herself.  You get her to unload just once so perfect that she sees the look and hears the rapid suck of wind and right then, you ask "That was fun, wasn't it?"  Because it is. Especially for people who have too much social pressure to be victims or who have come to believe that they lack power, to see it, to feel their own power opens up possibilities.

Another thing, and I say it a lot, "You know how to hit. You've been practicing. Now forget all that and just hurt me.  Don't think about your form, just think about knocking me on my ass." One little mental tweak and almost all hit much, much harder.  With the bonus that this brand-new mental tweak is miles closer to where their mindset needs to be if they ever have to hurt someone.

Good day today.