Time to Announce Who I Am

So- I do this in response to Iswallow’s confession as to why he’s interested in philosophy:


This farce has gone on long enough.

A good many of you know me- I’m very active on the internet under a few names, but haven’t posted on this site since 2003 right before I went into the US Army- I think it was 2-3 posts max. I got interested in philosophy at a very early age, was always a loner child… mom didn’t feed me well, and left me largely to my own devices. I was always asking questions, but wasn’t taught to speak properly, so my questions largely went unanswered. I ran away alot as a toddler, and had the entire police force of Yuba City and Marysville, California possessed with trying to track me down several times when I was still in diapers. I remember climbing over barb wired topped chain linked fences, and trying to go over a nearly dry riverbed over a rusty pipe crossing it parallel to a bridge a few stories high. Was found later on that day in a college amongst the students signing up for classes. Was known to try to build the water meter main outside of my house into a robot as a friend, and was always building stuff.

My grown up interest in philosophy, outside of military writers on strategy an statecraft, comes from Iraq. I was in the Airborne Infantry, was a arctic light infantry paratrooper in Anchorage, Alaska. My interest was to become a historian someday. I was in a several year long relationship with a honors student, and would sit in the library while she worked there, or finishing class… reading up on Leschester’s Calculas… trying to figure the crap out. I had no speakable education, as outside of a ninth grade one at the time, as I spent my teenage years in a broken home in West Virginia to a increasingly unstable mother who ran away from me when I was 16, and who made me drop out when I was 14. I was still acknowledged as the smartest person in my town of 30,000 people by many. I learned by staying in the library all the time, where I met my spiritual mother who worked there, or by doing odd jobs for local businessmen- especially offering to clean out their offices for free so I could see what books they had on their bookshelves, and then would go read them, or similar ones. I would run alot, and would disappear for days at a time into the west virgina and Pennsylvanian back country- between the hills of the Appalachian Plateau, along the old indian trails that only I bothered to look for, visiting ruins and caves, and abandoned mines. I always had things to run away from, and fewer things each time to return to. I didn’t know how to solve the problems of life, and would ask god for wishes, for solutions, and in general not knowing what to do. I traveled farther and farther, and had a habit of biting off far more than I could ever handle. But you get yourself in a jam, and you have to unjam it. No one is going to come help you in the middle of the night isolated in some country in the next state over where you see only cows and woods and the stars, and the deep cold of the winter.

I did job corps, in virgina- where people had a habit of dying randomly. I was offered a scholarship by many of the townsmen I knew, as I was still not 18 and the court never ruled on what should happen to me… preferring to just let it work itself out. So I went since I couldn’t do anything else legally. I was plopped down in college in the middle of nowhere in west virgina. My strengths were astronomy and anthropology- stuff I studied since a kid, and wanted to be a archeologist. I was the youngest in the university. I was also the most indifferent. I spent my time between studying on anything other than the work assignment in the library, running in the back country exploring the locale living conditions, and…not studying. I read the Bhagavad Gita in my remedial math class as I didn’t know what the monkey fuck that old scrooge was doing putting letters and numbers together on a board… in sixth grade I lost my mathbook, and was too poor to afford a new one, so I stayed at that level. One year of college- I either aced my classes, or failed them. I think my math teacher passed me the second time as he didn’t want to see me going through the srimad bhagavatam in his class for the third time… especially when I pointed out his geometry was fucked up in his definition of a point and a line and offered five historical theories from italy on what constituted as geometry. This pissed him off something serious and thought I was some kind of idiot savant. I lost interest at the beginning of the war, and started my return to training. Got a one room apartment, and read Sun Tzu’s art of war for 6 months straight while training long distance and movement techniques with a rucksack- before expanding to more complex works from as many time eras and nationalities as I could.

Fast forward back to Anchorage, Alaska in the university library, you can imagine my frustration of trying to reverse engineer that crap. Turns out though I always knee calculus- just didn’t know it, Clausewitz covered it largely. I gobbled the odd texts and periodicals. Made love in random places, be it there or in the poetry magazine, where I learned inbetween my molestations of her when it was just us the innerworking of a publisher. The basic rule of my life is I tend to learn alot form the women I am with… and she was no different. Turns out she knew remarkably little, but was attracted to a lifestyle that mimicked knowledge and culture. She knew alot and surprisingly little at the same time, and same for her elite friends in the stupid parties I would be brought to. Everyone just wanted to be rich… which reminded me of when I was in college. They reminded me of the same kids who would copy off me, or wanted to be my study partner… one of the things I found while in my back country hikes was small villages of absolute impoverishment… one room farmsteads with a few pigs in the muck- no trees on the hill, and the powerlines only going through half the town… each house like that. The college would drag the smart kids into the university, and afterwards they would flee, keeping the village intellectually impoverished. Everyone wanted money. Hearing those kids in Anchorage- all beautiful and super motivated to excellence and to succeed made me remember what the end result of that was. Somewhere a village was being populated only by idiots. It caused hardships, and made these perfectly good students into something less than real people.

I tried to be a good boyfriend. I don’t know how well I succeeded. I took a injury in my unit, messed up my knee, which had a childhood injury to compound it’s healing. I went from one of the best runners to injured status. I had a lot of books, but had to hide them, as it was frowned upon. I kept being sent back out before it finished healing, only to re-injure again and again and again. This cycle went on for a few years… and the lame duck PA never could decide to medical board me out of the military, or keep me till I healed, but never would give me a single diagnosis either. I went from the fastest to a atrophied mess, eventually working in the supply room. I hid my books down there, in a office I built out of wall lockers. I was building model helicopters with cameras built into them, and had a diverse library of books on military history. My commander saw it, and freaked out, not knowing I was smart. It turns out, the NCO I had before getting put in supply said I was a idiot, and didn’t want to do work. The commander turns out didn’t even know I was injured, and it was being kept quiet between my platoon sargent and the battalion command sargent major. He was impressed with the stuff I was building, as he never saw a handmade UAV, much less a helicopter based one. My books were even more impressive. We ended up trading books, and I got increasingly interested in counter insurgency literature. He wanted me to go to west point, which I was still eligible for, and wanted me to heal. I was all for it.

In the end, he was deployed to west point himself for messing up his books (prior to my joining supply- I just handed crap out and reorganized stuff) and I got a new commander and first sargent, who heard from some I was a complete piece of shit who just sat around all day complaining about a nonexistent injury, and others who said I was pretty smart, knew how to build stuff, knew alot about military philosophy, and was once the fastest in the company, and did alot before getting injured and got fucked over by the PA. It was also a few weeks later a new PA was brought in, and I was excited at the prospect of being properly diagnosed so I could either get it fixed or med boarded. Instead, I was withut being met, with 20 some others, mass demoted and accused of faking injuries. Alaska at that time had a horrible tradition of keeping injured people around, it was a culture of the time when injured rangers and SF guys would come up and finish their careers out fishing in alaska. I wanted to get better. They made someone in A company admit to faking a injury, and we all got into trouble. A few people went awol, while others got reinjured. I tried to fight it, going to a colonel above him- and was diagnosed and offered a med board… I took it. I was finally getting out, and would go back to school- but no. I was informed by the lower ranking new captain my med board was rejected… and that I was to return back to duty or go to jail. My girlfriend freaked out that I was going to jail… and I didn’t know what to do. I never did anything wrong in my life, outside of stealing some food from hunger as a kid. It caused alot of stress. I spent alot of my time on and off crutches, and one day had my crutches stolen from me by orders of the CSM while trying to get across the ice to the medical center for another bullshit check up. I would be taken on roadmarches, and would fuck my knee up, and would have people pick me up and throw me- whatever squad than month I was told to join- and scream at me for giving up, never mind the fact my knee was the size of a water melon. One time I had to crawl a mile back to the barracks over gravel. I thought a few times about going AWOL, but didn’t want to leave her. I figured eventually I had to heal. Never did though.

Eventually I protested enough to get sent to a Airforce doctor, who diagnosed it, and offered me a experimental surgery, or a med board. I opted for the surgery, excited that I would be jumping out of airplanes back onto the ice again. I was thinking about transferring out of my battalion into the new battalion being set up. However, I was informed after a new scan the surgery wasn’t optional as my knee was too messed up and had only 30 percent chance… and was told I had no choice but to be med boarded. I gave in, and said so be it. I was out within a few weeks I was told.

One week fore I was set to go through my med board, a guy ahead of me who purposely injured himself by leaping out a window on a second floor breaking the arches of his foot was announced to be the last one to be med boarded. Anyone upright was going to Iraq. Now this bothered me, as most of my military training the last year had been being told by guys newer than me who I never met that I was useless… which was true… as I was physically useless. This of course turned out funny in training missions when I would wipe out entire squads walking slow but methodologically on the training grounds shooting everyone with sim rounds. It got so bad I was yanked because I completely routed a platoon in the middle of the night in a training mission (nothing compared to when I built a fake 50 cal machine gun at NTC out of garbage bags and scrap fencing poles- made a entire brigade shift away from that position- which is a fucking awesome accomplishment). There was confusion, people said I was everywhere, or I was running and jumping. All I did was maintain a interior line of lateral movement through holes I knocked in walls, and made them assault me at a diagonal in the middle of a inner courtyard. I moved slow, and shot from predetermined points, and then left out and joined them in the hedges, hitting them from the back of their line… limping and reloading as I went. It was dark, but not that dark… try died of their own stupidity. Stuff like that happens around me… because I know how tactics work, and how human psychology works.

So- I was sent to Iraq, the triangle of death completely fucking useless, attached to supply. I landed, and saw everyone I knew go out on missions, and I stayed. It was boring as fuck. Sometimes a odd mortar would land inside, or I could hear gunfire going off in the distance. I was stationed in a powerplant… the biggest in Iraq- the one that the idiot canadian girl stayed in at the onset of the war to keep from being blown up… I wish she did get blown up. Would of been awesome. I would walk around when I was off inside of the power plant, just me and my old shotgun. The place had four smokestacks, and four stories. Complete rubbish. A abandoned russian village from when it was constructed. I noticed NO arabic manuals anywhere, russian, english, french, korean, japanese, and german… but nothing ever in arabic. I stuck my head down into every bunker I could, and went looking everywhere. Most of the soldiers were scared shitless of the powerplant that dwarfed the base. We were the only ones in Iraq who had anything like it inside of their base, most bases could be assured what was going on inside. Not this one. Holes from a unfinished base perimeter wall everywhere. I found weapons just lying around in and around the powerplant near where the workers were. I picked them up, and reported them… causing command to shit a brick. I lead several searches of the base for stuff, and we filled up over time a tricom full of left over weapons left from earlier units- mostly marines.

I found out why the triangle of death was there. Turns out it was the Sunni-Shiite faultline from when the wars were originally fought- the ancient battlefields were all around, and the villagers fought one another to a standstill every generation or so. What was going on wasn’t exactly a new phenomena, and people living within eyesight their whole lives of each other were plotting to kill the other. Having the hot headed marines there didn’t make things better- turns out wherever marines are stationed, a triangle of death arises. They could be stationed at disneyworld, and a triangle of death would arise. Just a stupid fucking breed. I spent alot of time moving on a abandoned metal dolly I found in the power plant’s junkyard old abandoned sandbags from collapsing shelters to the walls to patch it up. Didn’t ask anyone to do it, just did it cause it pissed me off there were openings. I sealed off the north wall after a while (towards the end of the deployment, it was all knocked down and replaced with proper concrete barriers, which I am totally in favor of).

I was eventually put in BDOC, and worked under the sargent major (below the CSM who ordered my crutches stolen). I fit in pretty well, and knew the entire post better than anyone, so ran it alot for him. Guys coming back from missions not wanting to do anything, so I placed them in buddy teams in the most important locations. We had a sniper that was always 240 degrees south at 3-400 meters that shot at us every other night around 2, for some bizarre reason no one ever was allowed to return fire. This pissed me off in the worst way imaginable when the damn bullet hit near me once in the middle of the post when it missed the guard tower, so I stayed up the next time it happened, on top of a roof, and fired back in his direction into that lush undergrowth on the other side of the Euphrates River (our base lined the damn river to the west of us). Now… the base got used to him firing at us, but my firing woke up the entire damn base… and if freaked everyone out, and there was a big massive search for who shot. I was one of the ones in charge of doing it. We had one idiot E6 do around putting his face infront of the barrels of guns in gun towers sniffing to see if they were shot, to the odd amusement of the tower guards. They guy didn’t shoot for a few days… thought it was a one in a million chance of me actually hitting him in a few acres of growth… but he returned.

One day, a platoon Sargent saw me, and he asked why I was so depressed looking. Said I didnt know why I was in Iraq. Just there to make the paperwork and civilians at home happy enough soldiers were ‘legally’ deployed, but I was fucking worthless. He said he needed a driver. I said I didn’t drive save once- was poor growing up and never owned a car- especially considering my mom left me when I was 16. I agreed to be his driver- a perfectly legitimate infantry job several healthy guys had to do, so I could do something useful.

I learned my first drive out on one of the most bombed roads on the planet. I remember I was told NEVER to drive off the road, as the bombs were planted there. I was told NEVER to drive over craters as they liked to plant new bombs there. I had a road that was more crater than road infront of me, with craters big enough to suck in a SUV. I was being screamed at to NOT drive into them, but couldn’t figure out what was gas and what was break, much less how to maneuver a heavily weighed down up armored humvee. I learned how to do 8 point turns while getting mortared, and parallel park during combat missions when we were doing a snatch and grab.

After a while, a few months of senseless bombings and mortars and rockets and a midget sniper on the prow, the Platoon Sargent decided he had enough, and wanted to quit. I didn’t know you could do this… none of us did. He had the platoon’s reckless and alcoholic, mentally unstable NCO shot up in the air while interrogating a guy in the field, which is illegal for some odd reason… apparently shooting up in the air intimidates them… never mind the fact they just got captured by a armed military unit… and he was placed in the head quarters to do operational security there, and we got a new NCO in his place. Some dipshit who got mortared a few dozen times too many in a little outpost and was promoted for not dying… which is impressive in and of itself.

He took a new, college edcated dipshit that was banned from talking to most guys in the company and put him in charge of me. I was informed I was faking my injury from what he heard, and that I would be sent to jail- and he would see to it. I pointed out I was still part of supply technically, and I volunteered for the line as a driver, and my humvee didn’t have underarmor, and you could see the road under me as I drove, and I drove on the most bombed roads in Iraq… so what he was saying made no sense… as I clearly wasn’t suffering from cowardness as that was how guys primarily died, not combat… and that I could always be made a gunner instead.

Well… this didn’t make him too happy. And I got persecuted as fuck. Made to do a lot of extra work. Screamed at all the time- even though others told them to chill. The younger NCO thought I was a wimp from what her heard, never mind I had been known to even while being injured to beat the daylights out of people if they pushed it too far in a fight with me. A knee was fucked up, not the rest of me. Anyway- it went on like this until the surge was announced, and we all got extensions of three months on top of our year. We also all nearly to the last man was simultaneously broken up with by our wives and girlfriends… who was the only damn reason why I deployed. It was also this time I found out my airforce doctor who I had the medical profile from was deployed to somewhere- and that the PA announced I was fit for duty… and I was told I was going on a ten mile roadmarch with all my combat gear- at a time when I was using a cane when not on missions to keep balance, as my knee was getting progressively more weak… this happened when I was told a Platoon Leader I was under a while back who I had a lot of respect for died (it was under him I built the fake 50 cal, and were talking about me running a marathon with when I heard I was going to have surgery)- from a IED, and had his death blamed on me, and was grabbed by the NCO and he tried to slam my head into the humvee… I nearly killed him right then and there… I had lost the only person in the world that mattered to me then that caused me to stay in the mess I was in. I was trapped by this retard in a platoon that I was told my only job was a driver and maybe gunner- given a second chance to do something to do something for my country… and I was having shit taken out on me like I was a little bitch of a punching bag. Never mind I was 215 pounds and knew several different ways to kill a man by striking at the throat alone. I wasn’t in the airborne infantry because I was a pussy, I was there for a reason, a freak random accident and a shitload of medical neglect got me there to that point… and I still hung on and carried on.

However, this reasoning lasted half a second, and next thing I know I was walking around… not knowing where I was going, plotting how to kill him. I was told by him that the combat stress doctor who I was going to in reference to my GF breaking up with me (and I was hardly the only one going for that reason) said I was faking the injury too and he told me… so the only half rational thought I had was to find him and find out if it was true- if I was completely delusional and made the whole universe up… before killing the other dipshit. It was 17 minutes of insane bliss. I found the office, asked… wandered off… in the wrong direction… to kill him. The shrink asked me where I was going… scared and confused… I guess I had the crazy look in my eyes… so I tossed him my rifle bolt, then took off to kill him with my rifle- minus the bolt. As I said- I wasn’t thinking sanely at the time.

Anyway, I got to his room, and looked at the rifle for a while. Thought about the shrink. It still didn’t click I couldn’t kill someone without a bolt, but backed away from doing it and went to the company tent to turn myself in. No one was in the company tent. I sat there for a half hour, and got bored, leaving my rifle there, and went to the chaplain’s tent, and sat down. He was watching TV. He was the one I went to when I protested and got the overrides over the PA to see the colonel then the airforce for a diagnosis.

I asked him after a few minutes if he could tell if someone was delusional. He looked at me odd. I asked him if he thought I was being honest about me knee all those months back, or if I was faking it so bad I fooled even myself. He perked up, and asked me what happened. I told him everything. His radio was a different kind than what each company used, but he had direct access to the shrink. He talked to him… and said everyone was looking for me all over the base- even though I never left the barracks area of a football size space.

I showed up to my company tent, and it was abuzz. Chaos everywhere. Dipshit was screaming, but someone pushed him out. I was calm, figured I would go to jail, but had no choice in the matter. Had I gone out, sniper always goes for the weakest one- but leaves them alive so the others have to carry them out, then pick the others off. It’s always been that way. I realized I was a inherent risk to life, no matter what I did. I should of gone Awol. I put everyone’s life at risk by existing. The only right thing I should of done was kill myself to have avoided this, but I didn’t. I didn’t hate myself, just my situation.

So, I just let chaos happen around me, while I stayed calm and introspective. I started to realize I had been insane those moments past… and was acting irrationally. But I hit a point where I was completely useless to everyone- a good year before my deployment. I was thinking about the guy who took my medical board meeting ahead of me, who purposely got injured so he couldn’t go. I thought about all those assholes back in the states protesting the war, keeping injured guys like me deployed so I couldn’t get changed out.

They threatened to strip me of my rank, but then noticed I wasn’t wearing any. They got pissed and put it back on, then ripped it back off again. They ripped my US ARMY tags off me, then my name… which even I wasn’t all that fond of at that time, so I understood the sentiment. We went around and around like this for a while. I would even go and pick the velcro rank up on occasion and give it to them so they could repeat. I was waiting for the handcuffs, but they never came.

Anyway… they never found out apparently that I plotted to kill my NCO. Doc said he abused his privileges as the company mental health liaison officer, he showed me my paper work that said nothing of the sorts, that I was optimistic and happy to be returning to combat prior to the change over- and had done this in the past to other guys… driving another to insanity before the war who was still recovering who done nothing wrong other than being small- but everyone else in that platoon loved him. He had two before that, who tried getting out of the situation by heavy drug use and purposely got caught. His only claim to leadership was running a fraternity in college, and was able to yell alot, which impressed the NCOs that they promoted him- but many also admitted to get rid of him so he would go elsewhere. My ass ended up with him. I was told I would likely keep him as well. I said it didn’t matter, as given when I gave up my rifle bolt, I have since decided I would never take it back. I wasn’t refusing to go outside of the wire- I was only meant to be used as a driver, nothing more. Showed him my legs, and how tiny the one got, and weird looking around the knee.

I was given a last chance by him, given how fucked up my situation was, and my refusal to touch my weapon again- as I was pretty heart set on jail at that time despite negotiations to the otherwise so I wouldn’t get someone killed next time. I kept getting feelers from the middle ranking NCOs ‘why didn’t you just tell us you were injured, we would of let you use a cane on the roadmarch’… which was the most INSANE bullshit I’ve ever heard in my life. Triangle of Death. I was broken, they ALL knew me, I helped them all at one point or another in the past, fixing their problems behind the scenes in supply. FUCK… a cane on a combat roadmarch I should NEVER of been sent on? Especially as it was still muddy as fuck then on those dirt roads. This has always stuck with me to this day… the way it was rationalized. Oh, we would of given you a cane. Yeah fucking right- like the time I had my crutches stolen or had to crawl back to the barracks being screamed at for giving up.

I ended up after a while in a catatonic state. Complete withdrawl. I had literally nothing or no one. Once in a while, I would see someone who remembered me before I got injured, and tried to reassure me. Other NCOs who said they supported me. They eventually put me in a warehouse where the post headquarters were. I refused to have a weapon… had my heart still on being locked up so I couldn’t accidentally cause someone’s death. I had been ordered under no circumstances EVER to exercise, if I was to exercise, it would result in me being sent to baghdad for a court martial. I stopped doing my physical therapy, and just drifted off into a internal universe. I watched through the windows every evening and then every morning the sun rise and set in a slightly different location. I was the first to hear about the murder trials, and thought I heard command trying to cover it up, but the major and CSM realized I the human mannequin was right there. Next day, everyone knew… and the post was split, who done it, if at all. I am leaning at a frameup- only because of what I initially heard, and knowing how fucking sneaky they are, but my testimony is worthless. I was also there when the PA stopped by… and gloated to me. I am really happy I had decided not to have a weapon any more- I have no idea why such a son of a bitch would decide to go into the medical profession… he reminds me of a red headed version of the twisted guard from the green mile. I was there when the triangular UFO came and hovered over us- and went into the headquarters to see them all chilling out, with the airforce guy not doing anything- listening to the guard towers report it. I knew something was up, but decided ultimately I didn’t give a fuck and went back to my desk.

It was when my root canal I had done as a kid exploded with puss I was sent to baghdad to have it worked. I was laided over for five days. Spent much of it in the gym, working my leg. Got it checked out by a doctor there, who was freaked out I was deployed with it like that. But I didn’t bother him, as I knew nothing would come of it. On my way back, I was thinking about all my failures in my life, how deeply useless I had become. Was there ever a point where I could of done things better? In the sense of healing faster or being a better lover or better soldier in preventing this? We were flying over the fields, up and down, up and down radically. The helicopter pilots did this as much to avoid missles as to scare the soldiers riding taxi in the back… but apparently he didn’t realize we were all airborne until half way through and that it didn’t really phase any of us. I noticed when down low, all the fields looked like shit, trash everywhere… but when up high, a ordered complexity started to emerge where they started using the resources more coherently, field after field. It was a mixture of stone age technology, absolute indifference and filth, and advanced horticulture. I thought about the manuals I found moldy in the powerplant not being read, and how much of it was malfunctioning because they didn’t know how to upkeep it. I thought about the friendly kills we kept having, and how my brigade had the highest death toll of any. It was damn oddities that mostly got us… electrocutions, drownings. The time I was blown up it missed me mostly cause I drove away at the last moment. I looked back out at those fields again, and then I was struck with the worst thunderbolt of creativity one can imagine. The garbage in the fields started recombining into new things, such as captive columns with plants growing everywhere on them. New ideas started to blister and cluster in a flurry like never before. Thought after thought after thought emerged, rapidly. I became overwhelmed. I knew from that point on what I would do with the rest of my life. I would solve every problem I saw confronting me. The biggest and most disturbing problem that stood in my mind was when I first saw a crater in a road we didn’t see the day before- and didn’t know where it came from, as we were the only ones on that road military wise. We called the IPs, and the Iraqi Army, both denied knowledge of it. Then I saw villagers plowing the fields glaring at us, then upcoming traffic from the Sunni village down the road… and realized it wasn’t meant for us, but for them. It wasn’t even a civil war with political ends- civil war doesn’t cover that- civil wars have civil end aims, this was genocide.

I recovered psychologically. I renewed my interest in books, and heavily annotated Ibn Khaldun’s Muqqadimmah. I realeased my library piecemeal to the head quarter’s little library, watching book after book being snatched up by officers I would see coming. If I made them smarter, so be it. I learned that every mortar soldier my company had went insane, save one, and went to germany- because they were NOT allowed to go on missions, or to the neighboring base KALSU. Kalsu was the most mortared base in Iraq, because of a idiot design flaw that put a highway overpass on it’s corner that allowed Iraqi’s too drive over and peer in. They had nightly mortars, and the locals used 120s. All the americans had were very poorly trained, inexperienced mortarist using 60s, while my company’s had the 120s and had more experience than any other squad in the division given the two years practice they had in alaska shooting range after range. They all went insane from knowing dozens of men were dying for no reason. They were stuck on BDOC instead… and couldn’t take it. Most insanity during the war I would later find out arouse from such circumstances.

We also had a micro coverup. Some allied Iraqi’s were had working with us was shot up by one of our guards when they were outside the gate- he knew who they were. Claimed they were acting suspiciously getting down on the ground by the tower, and lit them up. This was bullshit… and he got promoted. I talked alot to the various people on post, and kept myself in the loop. I would do detainee guard alot, and was stuck guarding the guys during the interrogations. Most boring crap you can imagine… nothing like TV, no water boarding. Most of the guys were relatives of insurgent leaders- school teachers or guys who couldn’t walk. Once in a while a real bad guy. I managed to get a few powerplant security guards released when I found out the sargent major had them detained because their IDs said they were armed guards, even though they were unarmed. I also started keeping track at this time the number of people- mostly refugees- living on the FOB. 200 a night. We also had a Mosque INSIDE of the base, that I stumbled across inside of a warehouse. Command decided there was no Mosque, but I informed them there was indeed one despite that… it was more evident when they had their sacrifice feast. I also tried to stop a hilarious accidental detainment camp when the iraqi refugees wanted to move into the russian village, which was falling apart- first time I requested it, Sargent Major barb wired the place up so they couldn’t get in. Then… they got in, and he relented, but didn’t bother to take down the barb wire. One of the extreme rare few times a journalist came, he looked down into the village from the high road, surrounded by barb wire, and photographed it before leaving out of the north gate. The Iraqi’s as always trashed the place, so he has a picture of them standing there, looking forlorn and dejected, in a concentration camp looking situation with garbage littered everywhere. Fucking idiots were down there screwing off instead of going into the powerplant to work. I also solved the mystery of whay the mortarist were aiming at inside the post- the hydrogen plant… everyone though it was the airfield, but that made no sense as most hits were near it- I even found the assholes inside of the base ontop of a water tower directing them- but the sargent major didn’t care, as he was walking back to his room when I pointed this out. They wanted to blow it up because it wouldn’t destroy the plant but would make a massive show.

I did some other lesser things as well. The legal assistant our battalion had died in his first outing to file paper work at the neighboring base, so he was never of much use to me.

Once I got back, I had nothing to do… I was still expecting either jail, or something. I wasn’t allowed to exercise still, if anyone caught me I was told it would be all over, so I stayed in my room doing research. My body kept decaying, I kept gaining weight, but my curiosity increased. Read more philosophy books. Went to the gym daily, but to sit in the sauna or steamroom, as I was prohibited there from exercising. I met a soldier who was in my battalion I recognized, but couldn’t recall his name. He was hit by shrapnel in Iraq, and the PA told him he was fine, despite bad chest pains. He went in everyday, demanding to be checked out, and he was told he was faking it. He had been told it was all anxiety, and to man up. He went home on leave a few months later, and immediately went to the emergency room to have chest x-rays done. They found shrapnel everywhere. He had 80 percent of his heart lining removed, and a lung. He was prohibited from flying back to kuwait within a week of the surgery, so went to the base to report for duty, explaining what happened. They called Iraq, and talked to the PA, and he denied he had surgery in the US, and it was all anxiety. The soldier had proof otherwise though, and got to stay… however, the PA got off scot free. In the end, the soldier was demoted for fighting the fact he never got a purple heart when other people got it for getting knocked unconscious from stupid acts of their own doing, and that he was made to mop even though he was a nco and was missing a lung. I heard his story, reassured him, and then… told him mine… and we both understood. I got the lesser of evils, and stopped moping around about it at that point. I fully expect someone to kill the PA someday, but it won’t be me. I can’t even remember the fucker’s name, so heavily I’ve repressed him out. Just remember the red hair.

I met the new company first sargent at that time. He knew nothing of me other than reputation, and no one at that point was defending me otherwise… as I asked the ones who did not to as it just made them look bad. He didn’t know why I never showed up to formation in the morning, and told him I was told not to, but was always up and in uniform- as he saw that morning. He didn’t understand it, but went along with it that morning till he found out more. Turns out, the top shrink the shrink sent me to in Iraq- the real one on Kalsu, realized I really was injured, and wrote a medical profile for me that was protecting me all along. He wasn’t allowed to do medical diagnosis, but could write the equivalent, and declared me a somatoform, someone who feels pain without it being clearly explainable. I was legally insane, even though he gave me a neurological condition. The first sargent I had asked me about this, and I said it was true. I was told I was going to be kicked out on that basis, but now they were keeping me for Afghanistan as punishment… which was stupid but I wasn’t touching a rifle either way so didn’t care one way or another, just didn’t want someone dying because of me. He wasn’t a fool, and knew how the medical establishment treated guy. He himself was creeply shot in the head, and had the gash on the side to prove it. he rumor was he was going to be made a read detachment post sargent major when everyone went to afganistan as a promotion, but also so people wouldn’t be weirded out that someone who was shot in the head was still around and giving orders.

He seemed nice enough, but he had to pretend to be a dick, and I had to pretend to be a shitbag. It wasn’t until my roommate tried to commit suicide by a overdose and I help save him (screwed that up a bit though none the less, but the SOB lived). He realized I was a good guy who got fucked over hard. I didn’t want to see anyone die at that point. Most guys did little during the deployment, I helped save a life. I did other oddities, like the time I saw people clearing out a poison ivy patch and kicked them out as I was immune to it, and sent them on and spent two days lone doing it. Or how I would help random guys out. It wasn’t the MO of someone who I was suppose to be. So he made it a priority to get me out, and we both brainstormed, and we decided to get me out on the basis of insanity as I was technically in a legal sense nuts… even though if one looked it up, they would realize it meant I was actually injured. So I got out. I left in good standing, and even got a few friends back in the unit when they saw command was trusting me again- I even hugged the first sargent the last day, which is rare for a soldier to do. Usually guys getting tossed- well, they get tossed.

I got back home to west virginia, and had plans on starting a publishing company, but found the entire economy had collapsed. I found a job working 8 hours a week, it was all the town had. I spent a whole winter just reteaching my body how to walk again without a limp. I started after a while using ankle weights, on the railroad tracks, at night in the snow, in increasingly larger and larger distances. I fucked my my knee real bad the first time and was laid over for several hours. I thought it was starting again, so I decided to play it as slow and safe as possible.

At time went by, I added a ruck sack, with ten pounds weight in it and a blanket to give it form. I moved to cincinnati after a year of this for work. I was fighting everyone- people with at times two master degrees, for jobs at mcdonalds. No jobs anywhere. Another year. I worked with some Montessori professors doing neural calculations for reading fonts… my background interest in publishing helped alot.

I kept pushing my boundries. I found a fast food job for a while. All vets. I blended in. A older former military captain tried to get me to join up for what we now call Xe, Black Water. I didn’t want it, he promised he could get me a spot- as I had a background in supply and wouldn’t knee to walk. I would run convoy delivery missions under him. This upsetted me alot. I hated the fact I was only offered one job, and that was as a mercenary. I knew I could do it no problems- especially since I would be given a high degree of autonomy and always ran my stuff well… but couldn’t. I remembered giving up the bolt. Didn’t want to turn my back on that. I thought about selling some of my weapons designs… but hated myself for that to. I was very inventive, but it only knew one outlet. I wanted to change my scope of inventiveness like it did on that helicopter ride.

So, I took a chance… like I always do. I had a 130 dollars on me in savings, and moved to San Francisco. Obviously, you can’t pay rent with that amount, I didn’t care. I needed the library and the diverse population with different mindsets. I looked continuously for work, and continued working on my knee in that third year. I found some doing unarmed security- i found me actually on the internet. I jumped at it. I joined as many philosophy groups as I could. I expected everyone else to pummel me- but it was the other way around, turns out reading nothing but primary sources, and from everything be it math history (to fix my math deficit) to various philosophies from history really gives you one hell of a edge in a debate with a couple of college professors and a random token sampling of the local literati. I also continued my study of Ekistics, looking into why sa francisco has a high homeless rate, as well as why it has a high crime rate, and why racism is so bad, and the nature of the homosexual community here, as well as a general study of fashion, as that’s what I largely guarded, fashion boutiques.

I’m leaving at the end of this month for my new location. Taking another chance. New things to study, new things to discover. I’ve gotten a few guys off the street since being here, even though it took me longer to get myself off- a year. Long walks in long rainy nights. Next place should be interesting.

That is one incredibly long post dude.

Fuck reading that. This isn’t even the right forum section for that shit post.

Iswallows, Cezar, and the jackass australian on this site who has like, 7 alias, are three misfits I know from a messed up Nietzschean site. Nomatter what I would do, the site stayed put with those three posting. Iswallows bothers me the least- I can probably meet him in real life without much issue. It’s the other two though… espeacially Taz- who failed twice at suicide and the castrated himself (google ‘bubbagoddesswilderness’) and advocated it for others who really pissed me off.

Taz is so stupid when I came here, and posted stuff here, acting like him- he thought I was him. I want you to comprehend that. He thinks I am him. I will say this again- he thinks I am him. Look at some of his posts, he refers to me as if I am one of his other alias by their names at times.

That is a new low in stupid, but also a new height in trolling. Never before in the history of trolling has a troll ever succeeded in convincing someone that they were actually them.

Cezar is as dumb as a brick. It was too easy to turn them against one another.

I had to do it, as it’s unconscionable for the three of them to get along in harmony, posting on this site. I fully admit to the terrorism. The alternative though- allowing to continue- was disturbing. Especially if people read that crap thinking that is what philosophy is.

Yeah- I am catholic, but I am a Cynic Catholic (as in the Cynic Epistles), with a strong background in Thomas Merton and Seraphim Rose… the two greatest theologians of the 20th century. Most of the atheists here never encountered one of them- much less a Christian with a background understanding of Cynicism. Everything I’ve done and said has precedent in the actions of past Cynics… my methodology and my system of refutation. It’s very much mainstream classical philosophy- diogenes was known for shocking and stumping Plato at times and then mocking him for it. Not my issue if your not used to seeing it- it’s a strain that was with christianity since the extreme beginning. Jesus grew up in a town that was next door to a renowned town known for it’s cynicism, and his life is clearly influenced by it- including his scene infront of the temple trashing everything.

Anyway- most everything ChristianOverman said, especially the first hundred posts, can’t be taken seriously. Some of it, especially later on when the MO changed, yes. There is NOTHING christian about Taz- and Christian Overman wasn’t christian either, he was part Muad’dib the Blind Preacher, part Zarathustra, and part Asshole, and part non-dualist Advaitian. Taz worships satan, and isn’t a christian in the least. It’s all one big scam to him, as it’s is me scamming him into believing I am him. However… in all fairness, Taz is the only person in history who, for even a short time, saw his Overman come to him after all those years of yearning, and speak to him. Taz is a cartoonist, drawling comics for a living of sorts… I realized the main way to him was via the imago dei, he’s addicted to the images, it doesn’t stay in his mind, but he likes the creative process of making it happen. So, hence to use of photos while talking to him. It clearly had a effect on him.

The name is Onasander Belvaderdorico- my most common penname- can be found on second life with it.

Gonna start erasing this crap out of my signature tomorrow. It’s annoying as fuck.

It’s in the same forum as Iswallows post of a similar nature… though his depression and entrance to philosophy came from a bag shroom trip and then 5 years of fuck, then followed by a happy picture experience of Shiva with a spear.

He gets to post here, so do I.

Thank you.

A good read, but more appropriate for a different forum.

What this encompasses is the narrative of a particular dasein. You had these experiences but not those. You met these folks but not those. You encountered these sources of information but not those.

You own “I” here is no less an existential prefabrication endlessly refabricated from the cradle to the grave than my “I”.

What does it tell you now about who you are? Well, whatever you believe it tells you. And what does it tell you now about who you ought to be? Well, whatever you believe it tells you.

And then tomorrow or next week or next month or next year you have a new experience, meet a new person, encounter a new source of information and “I” fabricates a way to accommodate it.

Or the new experience, person, source of information is embedded in a circumstantial landslide so tumultuous the epiphanies pile up into an altogether new way of looking at yourself and the world around you.

And then “I” dies and from the perspective of “I” it becomes as though “I” had never even been born.

Unless, of course, “I” is able to believe in God. Some can. Some can’t. But that too is just another manifestation of dasein.

Yeah… thing is, I am a christian… and a cynic… with a background in Zen (among many other Buddhist schools- alright, many is stretching it, but a few).

I also have a pretty long familiarization with the non-dualist Advaita.

What this means is I am unlikely going to jump on the Heideggerian bandwagon, as I’ve already seen much better and older articulated forms elsewhere.

There is indeed a I. I am pretty efficient in several different systems of personality typing, and the workings of neurology. I understand Nietzsche’s stance on the Ego, and have a high amateur awareness of psychology and a few theories of mind. I still stand by it- I exist. It also needs to be pointed out that under two different systems, Heideggar and I come off as the same personality type in the same brain region, the Supplementary Motor Area… so I have a little authority in rebuking him by looking at my own internal conceptions and experiences.

I thank you moderator for your consideration in moving my thread- I also deeply appreciate it that you kept a similar thread by Iswallows in the forum as well in which this was a response to. It makes a lot of sense having the two on very different sections of the site, and I will email the international librarian association strongly recommending the formulation of a replacement to the dewey decimal system with your system of order. Now it makes sense… as my post is here, and his is there, both autobiographical posts listing the authors respective depression. Iswallows is certainly more philosophically inclined than I am. After all, all his thoughts are deep and original.

I have a better idea- how about move BOTH of our threads to the psychology threads? Instead of making his life the work of philosophical legend, and my mundane babble?

One of my souls told me that you truly were just a christian Nietzsche; that is, a christian that describes instead of rationalizing and that has a well fed historical perspective.

I like it, it feels like having a brother on another planet (even if it is an enemy planet). And probably an older brother.

My pride soul told me you were the australian, which was part of your intention, even if not purposefuly directed at me.

Anyway, maybe I will get to hate you some day.

(I hope this doesn’t mean that you will drop your wit, maybe you can even use it without poison now!)

You call yourself a Christian. Others call themselves Jews or Muslims or Hindus or Shintos. Or Marxists or Objectivists. Or atheists. Is it because, as children, they all sat down, read everything they possibly could about “the meaning of life”, traveled the world to explore alternative narratives and then – intellectually – arrived at the most rational manner in which grasp the Truth behind human existence?

I suspect not. I suspect instead they were either indoctrinated by their culture, their community and their parents to believe this rather than that or they were embedded in a series of existential interactions that predisposed them to embrace one rather than another point of view.

So, is there a way philosophically to transcend this and to derive the most objective meaning to explain human interactions?

Maybe. But, again, I suspect not. Instead, I suspect most folks who embrace I rather than “i” do so because it has been engrained in them by others or in order that, emotionally and psychologically, they are able to feel grounded in lives they experience as wholly necessary.

And, in that sense, I am a cynic too. “I” is always just a work in progress between the two great oblivions.

Unless, of course, I’m wrong.

One should always make the best of a bad situation… as there isn’t really an alternative :confusion-shrug:

The alternative is to make it epic worst… something so fucked up people will be talking about it for thousands of years, like when Socrates trolled the population of Athens, and got put on trial, and he said… ‘fuck all of you, I am right and you should all praise me and give me shit’ and instead they gave him poison and he died, and now when people try to figure out how to get people to get along and live in the best of possible ways, they go and read about the homeless old coot who was poisoned by his own people in a popular assembly in a effort to get rid of him. He got his ass banned.

And if he ever pops up again, whe should ban him again.

Or pretend he is a ghost, and act startled when he screams, and act like it’s a slight whisper on the wind that may or may not have a meaning or feeling, and when he touches us or moves somethign cry poltergeist, and bring in a cross eyed almost blind priest to commune with his spirit, but once it starts happening, have the priest hit on socrates and try to get socrates to be gay with him.

I would give up. In the movie Ghost, had whoopi said I had a cute voice and wanted to fondle me, I would of gave up and left. None of this focusing on my penis to move a quarter stuff or be fondled by a clairvoyant stuff.

I read it all.