Nothingness and Everything

There is nothingness inside of nothingness here. The land drifts on for miles, with no mountains for comfort, only large berms of concrete and sand. The Taco Bell, the carpet and gift Shop, alterations, laundry and Starbucks are all the same square, dust-colored buildings,only separated by mounted signs on the front. My movements are restricted to and from my tent, the shops, the chow hall and gym. 

I don't feel locked up because there is no where else to go, and I miss nothing because I am rarely reminded of home.

A few days ago it rained. I walked outside, recognizing the smell, but the drops of water soaked into the sand not green grass. 

Of course there are thoughts that occasionally cross my mind like indoor plumbing, wearing my hair down, having a beer with friends, long showers, vegan pizza in Eugene, driving out to Smith Rock or the Three Sisters and saturating my eyes with colors like green and blue. But the newness of everyone and everything here washes away my nostalgia because those lost things are connected to the things that terrify me, like long work hours at part-time jobs indoors, busy work at the University, television and grocery shopping. 

And besides, there is everything on top of everything here. The sand comes up and burrows into my eyes and scalp.  The coffee shops are always crowded and the generators are always running. The soldiers dress the same, but wear different patches on their uniforms and the sky above our heads turn from blue-brown to grey-brown to white-brown to brown.

A Day in the Life

0500 Watched the sunrise.

0530 Went for a four mile run with Specialist Cunningham and Chief Warrant Officer 2 Miller.

0700 Ate potatoes, fruit, yogurt. Drank coffee.

0800 Showered.

0900 Walked to airfield to watch the 60's aka Blackhawks.

0930 Walked across the airfield (1.5 miles).

0945 Walked back across the airfield (1.5 miles).

1015  Took a cat nap in the back of a 60.

1030 Took a brush, scrubbed the helicopter.

1045 Watched pilots flush engines.

1100 Got hungry.

1115 Looked out into the distance and saw nothing but sand and sky.

1200 Ate salad, rice and mango puree.

1300- Escaped the heat, went to the gym at night, ran some more on the treadmill, while watching a UFC on the tube, lifted some five pounders, no big deal.

2100 Some people call it bragging, I call it just doing my job.

Starbucks

 I've never seen so many guns in Starbucks.  The tables are crowded with soldiers in uniform at their computers attempting internet usage on an over loaded server.

I'm in the middle of a desert living days like swaths of white fabric in a factory, each day another piece is manufactored, it is brand new, but looks the same, feels the same. 

Time is confusing living here in the windowless large tent I share with twenty female soldiers. The flourescent lights come on sometime between 5 am and 6 am, but for a 4:30 am morning bathroom break, walking to the door requires a flashlight. That is until I open the door and let the light in into my eyeballs and on my skin. I'm instantly as dry as the dust under my feet. I reach for my sunglasses, but realize that I have left them on the bed. So I head out, squinting to the porta potties.

Later, I walk to the airfield. I walk from office to office, watch a few aircrafts roll by. 

I eat lunch at taco bell with some flies and the take cover in my tent during the heat of the day.

Taking a Break

The soldiers had a four day break this month. I went to Seattle for the final good-bye to my mother, father, brother, aunt and grandparents. I looked forward to wearing my slim jeans, knee high black boots and silk tops. I wanted to flat iron my hair, wear make-up, drink beer and eat four meals a day. When I told my mother my plan she pointed out the fact that I had only been away for six days. "Yes," I replied, "But I want to live it up before I leave for ten months."

When I got to the Northwest I no longer felt keen to dress up and despite best intentions I was not that hungry. I caught a glimpse of what one could call the Time Machine Syndrome, which often plagues soldiers.

Here is the scenario: 

Soldiers deploy for long periods of time in foreign countries. When they return home, nothing has changed. Their homes look the same. Wives, husbands and children look the same, time has stood still. Yet the soldier has changed, as if they have crammed a lifetime in a year.

Of course, as my mother previously mentioned, I have only been gone for six days, but judging by how much time it seemed had passed, I glimpsed at the future.

I wanted to share every detail, but events seem trapped in a dream like sequence that I could no longer capture. I reverted to photographs to tell the tales, but soon the topic of conversation didn't matter.  The truth was I hadn't really changed, not after six days anyways. 

Perhaps I am really just an observer after all.

The Mess Hall

"The apple tasted pretty good," I tell the soldier after my first luncheon at the mess hall. "The water tasted great," I add. 

The technical term for the mess hall is the MOB (mobilization) cafe because it is a temporary place for soldiers passing through on their deployment.  Breakfast, lunch and dinner is served in a large tent structure near the barracks. On windy days dining feels rather dangerous. Light fixtures on the ceiling shake and the sides of the tent ripple like a ship sail's in a storm. On extremely blustery days the doors blow open and knock styrofoam cups and plastic spoons into the air.

Fox news can be viewed on two flat screen TVs, but most soldiers sit with their unit and chit chat during meals. The food and atmosphere reminds me of the cafeteria at my grade school, except the staff is a much friendlier crew. They always smile as they scoop spoonfuls of rice or meat, which some soldiers refer to as slop.

I am the only civilian here. As I walk by the tables soldiers stop chewing and stare at me with quizzical expressions. Usually I wear jeans, a  t-shirt and my brown vest. Most of the units know I am a journalist, but some have no idea why I am allowed civilians clothes. One soldiers asked me if I was fresh out of boot camp because he thought I didn't know the rules. 

So perhaps people think I just don't know any better. One soldier suggested that I should wear a shirt that says Press. I told him, I don't think so. I don't want a bunch of people coming up to me and pressing my chest with their hands and saying, "What? It says press."

Running

I run downhill over jagged, loose rocks in rattlesnake country on a military base.  I feel like Dexter Filkins, the famous New York Times journalist who wrote about his daily runs during his two and a half year stint in Baghdad. Instead of passing through checkpoints, I run past signs that warn danger from artillery fire and forbid pets in certain areas. 

I run, hearing the thunder of artillery in the distance. I run, imagining what Filkins must have felt, the release one gets when in motion, free from dilemmas that bind us to stress.  I run, laughing quietly to myself because I am a slow runner. I am simply a hopeful journalist, a Filkins wannabe. I am only following the footsteps of other runners who have already worn out this trail.

The Bus Ride

I'm in a large bus.  The movie, "Dan in Real Life" plays on a small screen overhead. I nod off to sleep. When I awake I wonder, why are there rows and rows of men surrounding me? It takes me a minute to remember that I am an embedded journalist with the Oregon Army National Guard. For at  least the next nine hours I will spend close quarters with these soldiers. 

I could report something interesting, but the truth is I fall asleep again. Sleeping being one of my greatest skills.

We stop in several gas stations in small towns that sell anything from car radios to belt buckles to patriotic clothing. 

The soldiers wander through shelves of cupcakes and crackers. They are allowed to wear their civilians clothes until we get back to the base. I am surprised that I cannot identify certain people outside of their camouflage gear and tan boots. Soldiers look much different donning white tennis shoes and t-shirts with funny slogans.