happy new year

band of brothers, no, not only that... 'i fought in a war,' no, not only that... i have a gun. the destructive half of myself is flaring up again. the part that wants to break, to shoot, to kill without remorse. i would have difficulty hunting, though, i think. i'm not even really considering that, it's only that it is one seemingly acceptible way to vent this destructive kick. i'd be out in the backyard, shooting trees with an old air-powered bb gun and couldn't bring myself to aim at a bird. there was a snake in our backyard once. i had to kill it, i had no choice. my fucking dog lived out there, i had to kill it. so i took a hoe and, when everyone and everything else was ok, i forced myself to make the single long, hard, powerful stroke that would sever the head from the body. and it was damned difficult because i had looked in that beast's eyes. the same thing that keeps the body from jumping off a building tried to keep me from throwing down that garden implement. it didn't help that it took the damn poor thing fifteen minutes to stop writhing on the ground. i think this whole fear stems from when i was younger. i was walking out to feed the dogs one muggy summer night when the frogs crawl over the earth. i saw a small one and, jokingly, as small boys do, i tossed a rock at it. and i don't mean i took aim and tried to fell the giant, i just tossed a small rock at a small frog. well, as luck would be, i hit it. the terrible part is, the little guy let out this terrible, blood-curdling scream. i was pretty broken up by it because i really didn't mean for all that to happen. i got back inside the house and tried to tell my mother what happened and broke down crying. i don't know whether the thing survived or not but i still feel terribly guilty to this day.

you know, maybe i'm not so destructive anymore after all. but i have this gun, an old old oldoldold .22. and i want to buy ammo and shoot things. people. i watch these world war II movies... and every now and then i will wonder about all these people who die. not so much about the americans because usually their name gets called in the context of "shit, they got, you know, johnson" and you see the mother or wife getting a letter by postman etc. but all the germans, those are the curious ones. those are the ones we kill with impunity, we revel in the pain, we lose track of as the numbers mount. there are no back stories to think about. there should be a segment of these movies, or a movie in itself of the story of one of these foreign soldiers. his life, wife, kids, job, all of that. his journey into battle with his brothers in arms. we are all just the same, i mean. and, all of a sudden, an american shoots him or stabs our man with his bayonet or, well, etc. and we hate the americans and mourn the loss of the german. or, give the backstory in the context of the americans and have the german die and the americans keep going and the story ends with a bang and is forgotten, shocking, no? or have the long story end in context of a well known american movie. so this wonderful german guy who was probably drafted and doesn't even supports hitler goes through grueling training, becomes a sniper against all odds, sets up in a village, shoots an american soldier in the rain, and gets shot in the eye through his scope by an american looking for private james ryan. well how the fuck are you supposed to feel then?

but... yeah, happy new year. this year will be different, i can feel it. and i can't wait. things fall into place, i laugh at the comedy of the people i know. i learn to walk away. i drink more, work more, play more. write more, play more music, take more pictures. oh fuck. oh yes. this is it, i can tell.