Grateful

I was hanging out with Chet the other day, my old partner when I was out working patrol and plainclothes. He told me that he read my "Hum Drum" posting, and warned me to be careful with the words I chose. He spoke specifically about my stated desire for revenge. He worried that such a statement could be misunderstood, or worse, manipulated in the wrong hands - taken as something other than the outpouring of outrage and resistance in the face of perceived futility that I meant it to be.

He's right to be worried on my behalf. From a standpoint of career longevity, it's not a wise move to speak out of turn in my profession. But this journal, in my head, has nothing to do with the uniform, and everything to do with the man who wears it (rare though that may be in my current assignment). I write for the same reasons that others paint. It's my little attempt to leave a bit of beauty behind before the proverbial sun sets, whenever that may be.

I think that writers want the movie deal because it means that people will read the book. They know that the money won't help them be anything other than the moody, sullen sons-of-bitches that they were before they were famous.

Chet spoke of another thing that day: how good I had it in my current gig - seemingly suggesting that such a posting should somewhat preclude me from being a moody, sullen son-of-a-bitch. I know that his concerns didn't come from anywhere but a place of love, and if I've insinuated otherwise, please disregard. He simply got me thinking. That's a good thing. Inspiration comes from the damnedest places.

Just to be clear, I know things at work could be worse. I've in many ways had a blessed career, and I've been given opportunities in my work that most of my coworkers have not. I'm in a choice assignment, to be sure. I get to take part in the kinds of investigations that people write television shows and movies dramatizing. In my head, I get to play McNulty in my own private season of The Wire. I've been to the ER only a few times. I've only had one surgery.

I could follow this rabbit hole of self-awareness and humility much farther. Right now, I'm alive and well in a very cool city while Haiti burns. I'm near my loved ones and family while our soldiers operate overseas, far away from home. I have a motorcycle, and an in-law apartment. I've got Halo ODST on the XBOX. I've got comics. Makers Mark. A Kindle. Clothing. Shelter. Food. Water.

There's no but in all of this.

A military commander, one likely of considerable renowned, once said that he only need worry about the soldiers when they stopped bitching. In the annals of military history, long ago, some like-minded commander figured out that a member of the unit, someone in a fairly high up position of command, but not the guy at the top, had to play the asshole who made the men reasonably annoyed and (occasionally) slightly miserable so that they would concentrate on the very real hardship and (occasional) mortal terror that was the more important issue. On submarines, they call this guy: the XO.

It's unfortunate that I know I'm supposed to hate the XO, because his power is summarily lost on me. Indeed, often, I love my job. The passion that I have for it exists in no small part because there is no more frontier but the exploration of humanity - at least one I have access to. We live our lives in the horrible lull between discoveries, left few places in which to find unpredictable adventure but in the things we elect to do to one another. And we are stuck that way until we download our minds into the Internet or sail between solar systems on the wings of the solar winds. I am at least reasonably content to continue exploring humanity in the capacity that I can. I am grateful for that opportunity. But I am not the android, Data, on the Enterprise. And the emotional toll of my explorations is something I don't care to hide.

So thank you for letting me vent.