(w)rapping

This is not that post. The one that wraps it all up. I have no idea if that’s even possible.

I’m happy to be leaving, though of course it is bitter sweet, having had more friction than there ought to have been and I still don’t know what reception awaits me upon my return to work. That said I have accomplished plenty, and I’ll be on vacation for a full month, and have plenty of time to decompress and reflect. With the office on lock down due to weather I may be able to eschew having to hear from them until my return some 30 days hence. I may have over-identified with people out here, but it is the only logical course of action when there’s so much lack of perspective in the US. I didn’t follow the race in MA and I don’t really care that much about this race or that issue or any of it.

The last few days will involve packing and shipping back stuff to the US and deciding what to bring to France and then on to the US. Do I bring the boots which have been so good to me, or do I stick with the very nice black tall for shoes/short for boots foot attire I picked up in Wiesbaden in December and sneakers? The desert boots weigh a lot, and on the flight to FRA I have a weight limit to content with, plus I’m pondering how much I’ll actually use them, but I am attached to them.

Old patterns are re-appearing in my mind, even as I had other plans just a few weeks ago. I guess this is the post-deployment adjustment kicking in, and hopefully I can get some of those plans for my life back between the cross hairs of desire. I still will likely think that a lot of your arguments are petty and pointless and I’ll eschew a lot of it, but I still have my bubblegum pop fixation that balances it all out nicely. A certain clarity has slipped from me in the past couple weeks, but I hope escape from the pressure cooker takes me back there.

I liked being further forward more than being in the creature comfort rich but full of petty stressors luxury domiciles. I wore my IBA with no complaint  and slept using the chin strap to keep my head from slumping too heavily on my way to Kandahar, as the French officer read a history of the American Civil War, the equipment seemed not to strain at its chains too violently and the heat of 30 extra pounds kept me insulated from the cold at 0400. I have seen the guts of aircraft and the actual wing, from the inside, pallet upon pallet have I shared my flights with, all going up to do what needs to be done. I’ve involuntarily watched the same sports loop at Ali Al Salem in comfortable yet abused and withering leather chairs, learned no more than 2 muffins per day, that you can’t trust the schedule, that few things feel quite as good as leaving an Army base and returning to an Air Force one, the wavering sense of control, lost and regained in the same minute, the reassuring shaking of the body by 16 blades above, behind and ahead. I’ve been taken for federal law enforcement (every 3 and 4 letter in the book out here), or no more questions asked, or asked if questions can be asked, been out of place and both curiosity and obscured, an enigma, compounded by the gauze wrapped around the military’s glbt, the subtle dishonesty in the field that doesn’t care or allows the law to be enforced or not on whims.  Gotten pretty good at Texas Hold ‘Em, practiced with special agents, or at tables at Victory and Stryker, still can’t shuffle, play for fun, and it is fun. Am desired by some to stay, and conflicted, but must go.