Ferocity Mill

In the months preceding my exodus from the military, I was asked at least once a day about my “plan.”

“So, you’re getting out. What’s your plan?”

Since the person asking me was usually a career soldier whose own plan had been to stay in the Army as long as possible to avoid having to hone any other marketable skills lurking underneath his own camouflage print, I tended to respond with as infuriating a reply as I could muster.

“Oh, I thought I’d blow all my money on a big, impractical car before moving back in with my parents and applying for a government job,” I’d say, smiling brightly.

Actually, that answer probably would have satisfied many of my superiors far more than the one I really gave.

“I’m going to travel for a while, then figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.”

“But – what’s your plan?” they’d repeat. “Are you going to go back to school? Do you have a job lined up? Have you thought about re-enlisting?”

I’d tell them all that no, I didn’t have a plan, exactly – I planned not to work for the government ever again, but beyond that, I was looking forward to lacking structure and discipline for a while.

My ideal day, as I envisioned it every twelve minutes or so throughout my last deployment, would begin at no time in particular. It would start whenever I woke up, and end whenever I was too tired to continue it. I would fill the hours of that day with whatever struck my psychological chord the sweetest, be it sleeping, hiking, traveling, conducting psychedelic experiments, protesting the war, or simply sitting quietly, uninterrupted. Nobody would call me by a rank or title, I wouldn’t have to put on a uniform, and the words “side-straddle hop” would be gibberish to anyone in my vicinity. Most of all – and this was what made the ideal day emphatically post-Army, rather than just any old Saturday – I would be able, if I felt so inclined, to go out and get a tattoo anywhere on my body that I goddamn well pleased.

That vision has been realized nearly every day since I left the military. I haven’t counted those days up because they’re still happening, but May 24th will be the first anniversary of my release, as I like to call it, and I feel like ten months is a pretty good run, so far. I’ve lived the last ten months in almost complete freedom – with no job, plenty of money in the bank, minimal responsibilities, a dependable mode of transportation, friends all over the world, and a healthy spirit of adventure. As far as gratified idealism goes, I feel like Anne Frank might have if, upon stepping out of the attic, Hitler had walked up and given her a hug. It’s been everything I thought it could be and more.

I’m saying all this to keep reminding myself of it, because the time is fast approaching when I will have to once again start earning my keep as a human. I won’t be getting a boring desk job as a government propaganda-spreader or anything, but it will definitely be time for me to start contributing something more than trunk space to the world.

Oh, and have I mentioned that this is the first time I’ve really even been on my own? The Army scooped me right out of my parents’ house, rocked me in its soft lap of financial stability and free healthcare for a while, then unceremoniously dumped me onto the gravel-coated ground of economic recession. I’m not complaining – hell, everybody goes through this transition at some point or another – what freaks me out is the fact that most of my peers have already had things figured out for a few years. How is it that I can spend three out of the last four years in a combat zone, yet have no earthly idea how much I should be paying for a visit to the dentist? The hygienist could demand a tip, insisting that that’s how it’s been done for years, and I’d probably pay it. The thought of situations like this make a little voice inside my head go, “AAAAARRRRGH.”

It’s been easy for me to tell myself that my post-Army career will revolve around something I truly love, that I won’t settle for less, and that I am an idiot if I accept anything else. But then I pull my head out of my ass, blink a few times, and peer out into a world where writers have day jobs, photographers shoot weddings to pay the bills, and bread costs five dollars a fucking LOAF. It may be time to re-strategize, is all I’m saying, because the unemployment benefits will be running out reeeeeal soon.

So, I’ve moved to California, made a website for my side-project of photography, and begun preparing to go back to school. My goal is to be an English teacher. It seems like a fairly obvious career choice for someone who has lines from classic literature indelibly etched into her skin, and I think I’ll be able to pull it off, as long as I don’t allow the wind to blow me off somewhere before I can get the necessary credentials. That way I can continue to work on my writing and photography, and the Post-9/11 G.I. Bill will fund my life until I finish school.

Anyway, that’s my plan. What do you guys think? Would you let me stand in front of your kids and tell them that if they can’t appreciate Oscar Wilde, they’ll probably grow up to be boring assholes?

:::

Today’s Moment of Zen

March 2007

March 2008

March 2009