Consumed by a dark fire. It races the way youth chases lust; with a driving passion that can only destroy. The fire rages without heat, the touch of the flames like ice. The destruction is unabated, the unnecessary turns to ash, the dross disappears in smoke. The one consumed is purified by the fire, made new, born again through pain and anguish. The flames never extinguish, merely subside into the recesses of his soul, waiting to engulf him once again.

As I mentioned earlier, I am trying to keep from brooding so I am working on changing the thinking pattern through this story.  Compare it to the rather lengthy “Tense” post below and you’ll understand.
This story is another from my time at the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry Battleschool in Wainwright Alberta.  Surprisingly though, it doesn’t contain a Moose reference (remember him?).  It deals with a rather memorable morning inspection.
Now first I have to explain a little of what inspections were like at the battleschool.  We had lockers with four drawers in them, each one with a very specific list of what was supposed to be in them and where, and the bottom drawer was supposed to be ours and not inspected.  They lied.  Go figure.  We had two shaving kits – one for the top drawer for inspection and one that we actually used and was stashed away somewhere.  Our dress socks had to be rolled individually with “smiley face” (that’s the polite way of saying it, a certain slang word was often used), and all the smiley faces in every drawer of every recruit had better be facing the same way.
Every morning when we made our beds (they would check on us at night to make sure we weren’t sleeping on top of the blankets) we would have to fold our ground sheets, a tarp basically, and tuck it in like a blanket.  There were no wrinkles allowed in said ground sheet so we would iron them.  A bloody tarp and we had to iron them.
And boots.  Oh god the boots.  Parade boots, massive garrison boots and dress shoes that all had to shine.  Plus our combat boots that we wore every day.  We had two pairs and alternated them each day, with numbers written on the inside so the instructors could see if we were cheating (we of course did find ways to cheat).  Now combat boots don’t get a high gloss shine but…We had to paint the soles with boot black every night.  Dig the stones from the treads, run them under the tap and paint the bloody bottoms of our boots black.  Every morning they looked brand new.
And oh yes, during inspection you never moved, never spoke unless in answer to a question and most definitely you did not laugh.  On with the story.
One day our platoon warrant officer decided he was going to conduct the inspection.  Now the warrant was only about 5’9’ and a buck fifty if he was lucky, but damn was he a hard man.  Former Airborne Patrol Pathfinder, US Army Ranger School, British SAS training, a couple of UN tours - hardcore.
The warrant begins the inspection in the section before mine so we can’t see anything but can hear what’s going on.  We hear him say to open the bottom drawers.  We all think – oh shit, because the bottom drawers are always a mess and are where we stash things before inspection for lack of a better place.  Then he moves to the next guy and it dawns on us, those of us in my section all look at each other with a horrified look on our faces.  This particular recruit, well, he had an interesting collection.  When he was in the reserves he had done a tour in Bosnia.  While over there he acquired some interesting literature.  The most god awful porn I had ever seen.  Now it takes a lot for me to say “That’s disgusting!” but these magazines were just horrendous, obscene wouldn’t even come close.
Now we all wonder what is going to happen when the warrant looks in porn boy’s drawer.  Well…We hear him – “HOLY FUCK WHAT IS THIS!”  That’s when the snickers start, we’re biting the inside of our cheeks to try to stop, but it’s difficult.  Then – “YOU PEOPLE ARE SEXUAL DEVIANTS!!”  That did it.  None of us could contain it any longer and the barracks erupted in guffaws.  The warrant, nice guy that he was, let us get it out of our system for about 30 seconds before yelling “STILL!”  By the time he got to me, I still had tears in my eyes.
That’s one of the few good memories I have of that place.  I found some pics of the base and barracks so if I can get them scanned I’ll post them.

I've been feeling tense the past day or so and I am not sure why.  I have many things on my mind at the moment.  I think today will be spent trying to sort out the thoughts in my head, and emotions.  For so long now I have substituted the intellectual for the emotional, and now emotions are coming back to the fore.  That leaves me unsettled to be honest.  With the intellectual there are answers, and if you haven't figured it out it I don't like not having answers.  I know that with enough research and work I can find a solution.  Emotions however have no easy answers.  They are full of uncertainty and ambiguity.
I've taken a risk.  I've started climbing a tree; I had to reach for the first branch but pulled myself up.  Now I am wondering if that branch will hold me.  Yet, I still feel the attempt to climb is worth the risk.
The intellect is still there, sharing with me all the reasons not to climb higher, presenting the arguments to slowly lower myself down and walk away.  I don't want to walk away, I want to feel the exhilaration that comes when moving from one branch to another, open air beneath me.
I think today I will be adding to my "Scrawlings" category, I need to write and bring order to chaos, to work through this since I refuse to remain melancholy.  Welcome to My Brain. 

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Dec 3 2002 (some old writings unedited)
The ideas of the future change rapidly.  It is as if something is trying to break through the neurosis, trying to make me grow up, accept what is and move on.  Are all my dreams of travel and responsibility-free living merely what Jung talks about as carrying my youth over to the older years?  Will following those dreams just once relieve me of some of the neurosis?  Will it allow me to move forward with my life?  Jung stated that one with neurosis fears the future, the unknown and clings to past safety.  I have great difficulty living in the present,  If only I could accept where and who I am, then the future would not seem so daunting.  I am fractured - wanting stability, family, normalcy and yet also wanting to be totally free.

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July 8 2002
Didn't write anything yesterday, but it's ok.  Nothing to write anyway, brain was slow.  New place for the coffee shop.  As I read Woodsworth describe is youth, I can identify with it.  I will have to find a new spot to sit, one that gives me a view of the store, one where I am comfortable.  Odd, I first walked into the coffee shop over ten years ago in that spot.
Rain teases, the wind is blowing and the sky is a blanket of gray, yet all we will receive is the humidity.  It's quite boring without the newspaper to read and I can't find anything to pique my interest to write about.  I have a full view of the street but nothing interesting is going on.
It is boredom that is dangerous.
I have switched seats to see the whole place, I dislike my back exposed.  This way I can watch the activity.  The smell of new paint hovers in here.  I write down my thoughts and observations, but what form will they take?

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July 5 2002
The young lady that works at the Intel is in.  A high girlish voice.  A giggle.  Smile open and bright.  Attractive girl.  Short brown hair framing her face, strong nose and high cheekbones.
Words are failing me, and that upsets me.  Is the loss of creativity worth being better?  Consider that I have never done anything usefull with it, and that I amy become more creative.  The skill is still there.  Perhaps I may actually be able to accomplish something with it.

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Ran into Mike ont the street.  A man that at first glance is nothing more than a drunk and dim-witted.  But talk to him for a bit and you learn his intelligence.  You feel for someone with a mind like that who has destroyed much of his life through booze.  He knew Yeats and Castaneda when he saw the books I was carrying.  Another I don't want to become.  I remember when I pulled him off the floor into a room, asked him what was going on, then watched as he broke down.  I was amazed that a man who seemed so slow, so out of it, could have the intelligence he did.  I remember how proud I was of him when he shaped up.  At least for a while.
*note - Mike was one of my agents at work, he killed himself shortly after I saw him

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July 2 2002
I long for solitude, yet at times seek the companionship of others.  I want to get lost, go away, be free from the conventions and expectations of others.  Tired.  So tired.  Tired of the game.
Rage is a mask for pain.
My head hurts, my soul aches.  It feels empty, yet I do not know what will fill it.  It is built from within, can't be filled from outside.  But how?  How do I fill that void from within myself?  A permanent solution, not the fleeting fixes that I grab for.
Forest ranger, shepherd - those are things for me.  Alone.  Sit.  Watch.  Read.  Write.  That's what I do.  I don't feel a part of what goes on around me.  I feel separate from the world.  Floating above it.  My mind seems a little slower - llike the pressure is gone.

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June 28 2002
What do I want to write?  Everything.  Literature that moves people, fantasy to escape.  Write to teach, persuade, enlighten.  To make people think, laugh, cry, to make them know me, understand me.  Perhaps my single largest goal with other people - to be understood.
I have to say I love women's summer clotihng - free, liberating.  Makes them so attractive, the light fabrics, the bared skin.  It carries an inviting sensuality.
A girl I think I went to school with is in.  She looks so familiar.  Her face has a soft beauty to it.  Warm, quiet and inviting.  Everything about her seems soft, the curves of her body, the line of her calf.
I wonder when I will reach the point where I will be able to piece together the small bits here into something larger.  But no real rush, just let it happen and enjoy the daily writing.  Get lost in it, revel in it.
Freedom is what I strive for.  Freedom from the tedium of everyday life.  Drudgery.  Find an aspiring artist girl, live by passions, disregard the rules forced on us by others.

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OK, feel a little better now going over the old stuff.  I think today I'll have to take my black notebook and head to the Arms, sit there with a pint of Guinness and a glass of Jameson's and scribble away.

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One thing that has been on my mind.  Soemthing very enjoyable, a rememberance from the past, not a particular person but the situatation.  A woman's head on my shoulder.  Whether simply sitting on the couch or lying in bed.  The smell of her hair, the feel of her skin.  Feeling the rise and fall of her breath, and if lucky, her heart beating.

Come with me, come with me

Follow me down the Path

Would you like to take a journey

There’ll be no coming back.

Come with me, come with me

Be sure to stay close by

Through the Garden we will walk

Sun, flowers, birds on high.

Come with me, come with me

See the Path before us

It leads through the open meadow

Yet it has no egress.

Come with me, come with me

For that is not our way

I will show you the Path I tread

Each and every day.

Come with me, come with me

Into the sheltered grove

The trail is dark and overgrown

Explore the growth time has wove.

Come with me, come with me

Can you feel the embrace

The cool damp air awakens you

And soon your blood will race.

Come with me, come with me

It’s dark but I can see

If you allow me to guide you

You will travel with ease.

Come with me, come with me

I have been here before

This place has been sealed by Hermes

Shortly you will know more.

Come with me, come with me

We now approach the light

You will cringe and close your eyes

But do not run in fright.

Now do you See, now do you See?

I want to write, there is something inside that needs telling yet I can not put it into words. That is incredibly frustrating to me. I've been sitting here for hours, staring at the screen wanting to write. Not to fill blog space, but there is some need to put words together. You see, writing for me is a way to put my thoughts in order, to make sense of what is in my head.

Often people ask me what I am thinking and I say simply that I can't explain it; they never believe me. It's just that what goes on in my head doesn't always translate well to the spoken or written word. The other day I was at some friends and I said something along the lines of "Unless you have a fucked up mind like mine" and one friend said "No one has a fucked up mind like yours". Could be. But I like that. I love my individuality; and after years of trying, I no longer want to be "normal".

I have no idea why I have shared the things I have on here. I never intended to divulge such information when I started. So what I am going to do is just type, no edit, and click "Publish Entry". Perhaps something sensible will be produced, maybe not. I have made a commitment to myself to be honest on here, I may not tell you everything about myself, but it will be honest. I treat this space like the little leather bound notebook I have, except now others can read what I write.

How many of you know what it feels like to not quite fit in? To always seem to be on a different plane than the others you now. That's what I feel like every day. I know some of you do from reading what you have posted. There have been times that I wished I could breeze through live like some others seem to, there are times at which I desired nothing more than to be numb. I wrote in my last post about self-control and how I strive for it, but that does not mean I do not feel. I have felt the ecstasy when a woman told me she loved me, and I have felt the devastation when she left. I have experienced both unbridled passion and uncontrollable rage. I control my feelings because they are so intense, and release them at certain moments.

I live in a world of daydreams. I prefer it. That doesn't mean I can't survive in the real (I should say outside) world, I can do that quite well. I am an introvert as Carl Jung defined it, meaning I find meaning within the self.

I do not want to be numb. What I want actually, is a constant "manic" state. When I hit that high - I have an incredible clarity of mind, colours are more vibrant, flavours more savoury, sounds more musical and women more beautiful. To have been numb means I would never have loved Laurelly, even though the outcome was not pleasant - I would never have felt that passion. To be numb means I never would have known the bonds of friendship.

Yes, there are bad times. I feel emotional pain as physical pain. My mixed states are awful - emotionally depressed yet restless and full of an undirected energy. But I know how to handle those now.

I am who I am; and after about 20 years I now like who I am and am quite comfortable with it. I know both the good and the dark that exists within me, and accept them both.

I've written a fair bit here, why I don't really know, but it still isn't what needs to come out. Maybe some sleep will help it rise to the surface. No edit, now I click publish.