23 March 2008
12 May 2007
skinbeatergreg-Saint Crispin's Day
skinbeatergreg-Saint Crispin's Day
I served in the same rifle compnany as skinbeatergreg, and I think that his post speaks to exactly what this blog is all about.
Enjoy
I served in the same rifle compnany as skinbeatergreg, and I think that his post speaks to exactly what this blog is all about.
Enjoy
10 May 2007
Marksmanship
Marksmanship, true marksmanship not recreational shooting or hunting, is a collaboration of polar opposites coming together to achieve a specific purpose. It is a perfect example of the Taoist concept of Wu-Wei (doing by not doing). In order to hit a target twelve inches in diameter from 200, 300, or 500 meters away a marksman must contort his or her body into positions that will support the rifle. An engineer may appreciate the art of marksmanship because a perfect shooting position usually consists of two triangles resting on each other at their points. The first triangle is formed by the shooters leg and the ground. The ground is the sturdy base, from which the position is built and the leg forms the other two sides, with the knee as the fulcrum. On top of the fulcrum the shooter places his or her elbow, which is the point of the second triangle. The shooters upper arm and forearm form two sides of the upper triangle, which is a stand for the rifle to rest in comfortably. When the rifle is placed into the shooters hands, the upper triangle is complete, and the shooter is no longer human, but a structure by which the rifle can accurately engage the target. The shooter must remain totally relaxed. Muscle tension cannot be made absolutely consistent. Any aspect of the shooting structure that may vary will hamper the rifles ability to hit the target. The shooter's front hand, located on the barrel of the rifle, controls elevation, which is the up and down aspect of aiming. The shooters lower leg and knee (the top and front of the lower triangle) controls deflection, which is the left and right aspect of aiming. The shooter must be patient and intelligent enough to understand how to re-adjust their entire structure to move the impact of the bullet three of four inches several hundred meters down-range.
Patience, relaxation, and intelligence are the qualities one must have to master the rifle. This tool, the rifle, has become synonymous with aggression in our culture. Its elongated form thrusts out at those that the bearer wishes to use it against. It releases the immense power it possesses in short, explosive bursts of aggression. It is hard for one to deny the phallic nature of the implement of war. The irony is that in order to dominate this tool and force it to perform as you wish the lightest of touch, a contemplative mind, and patient soul must be implemented. The marksman must allow the rifle to become a part of his or her being, not attempt to impose his or her will on the rifle.
I have not touched a rifle since I have completed my service in the United States Marine Corps, nor do I ever wish to again. I am content to leave that part of my life in the past, and use it a stepping stone to greater things. In my mind the rifle has become an object that is the embodiment of my service. The problem is that the rifle will not leave me. I enlisted in the Marines when I was nineteen years old, and left their ranks at twenty-three. The Marine Corps forged so many of those positive intangible and ineffable qualities into my being that I am convinced that any success I a may accomplish can be directly attributed to my service; but it has left me with some emotional baggage as well.
The ages of nineteen to twenty-three are very formative years in a persons development. The Marine Corps gave me so much during those years that I now feel a sense of emptiness without it. When I was a younger man I had a job that came with a near boundless supply of pride. I was part of a tradition over two-hundred years old. I was part of an organization which is recognized throughout the world as being one of the best at what they do. I was part of entity which was much greater than me. I was accepted by others because of I had accomplished. I had accomplished something that very few attempt, and even fewer succeed. My sense of accomplishment grew as I watched some of my cohorts become unable to handle the absurdly high demands of the Marine Corps. There was so much action in my life that I have yet been unable to achieve the same level of adrenaline since then. I traveled the world, or at least the Pacific Rim, when I was a young man. Then, one day, that was all gone. I was looking forward to coming back to the real world and continuing my education, and I am still convinced I made the right decisions; but I desperately miss the sense of pride, accomplishment, action, and adventure that I enjoyed as a younger man.
This emptiness manifests itself in my psyche as the ghost of the rifle. There are times that, without a logical explanation, I can feel the rifle in my hands. I can feel the pistol grip in my left hand. I can bend my index finger to the exact angle needed to apply even force and squeeze the trigger for maximum accuracy. I can feel my stubby, sausage-like middle and ring fingers wedged in between the trigger guard and the notch in the pistol grip, in the space that was designed for only the meaty middle finger of a Marine with much stronger and more masculine hands than mine. I can mimic with precise accuracy the motion of moving my thumb from the right side of the pistol grip, quickly sliding it across the back of the grip, and moving it directly up from the base of my hand to move the selector switch from safe to semi. I can still feel the pressure of the buttstock in the cusp in my shoulder formed at the point where the deltoid muscle meets the pectoral muscle. I see everything as though it were over the top of my rifle sights. I feel my eyes darting to and fro, looking for hostile targets. My muscles remember the exact motion it takes to move the rifle to firing position and get two well-aimed rounds off within one second. All of this has become a reflex to me because of the immense training I received as a young man. I hate this feeling.
This ghost reminds me of the higher calling I once had, and the boredom of my current life. This ghost is telling me that I am more important that the position in life I occupy now. I must not succumb to the ghost. I must not regret my current life. I must not listen to what the ghost is telling me. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald knew this same ghost, and I believe he succumbed to its message. Oswald was a former Marine who spent his entire life after his service trying to make himself more important than he was. Shortly after his discharge he defected to the Soviet Union, thinking that an American defector would be treated as a hero in the communist nation. Frustrated with his position as a simple factory worker in the U.S.S.R., he returned to America, and tried to become an influential member of the Communist Party in this country. Oswald eventually decided the quickest way for the world to recognize how important he was would be through political assination, and this is why we know his name today.
It seems to by that my aim in life now is to overcome this ghost. Perhaps I need to find another powerful force to conquer with Wu-Wei. It could be possible that I have to find a replacement for the pride, sense of accomplishment, action and adventure that ceased to be a part of my everyday life at the end of my enlistment. One thing is true, the ghost of the rifle has become my nemesis, and we are locked in battle.
Patience, relaxation, and intelligence are the qualities one must have to master the rifle. This tool, the rifle, has become synonymous with aggression in our culture. Its elongated form thrusts out at those that the bearer wishes to use it against. It releases the immense power it possesses in short, explosive bursts of aggression. It is hard for one to deny the phallic nature of the implement of war. The irony is that in order to dominate this tool and force it to perform as you wish the lightest of touch, a contemplative mind, and patient soul must be implemented. The marksman must allow the rifle to become a part of his or her being, not attempt to impose his or her will on the rifle.
I have not touched a rifle since I have completed my service in the United States Marine Corps, nor do I ever wish to again. I am content to leave that part of my life in the past, and use it a stepping stone to greater things. In my mind the rifle has become an object that is the embodiment of my service. The problem is that the rifle will not leave me. I enlisted in the Marines when I was nineteen years old, and left their ranks at twenty-three. The Marine Corps forged so many of those positive intangible and ineffable qualities into my being that I am convinced that any success I a may accomplish can be directly attributed to my service; but it has left me with some emotional baggage as well.
The ages of nineteen to twenty-three are very formative years in a persons development. The Marine Corps gave me so much during those years that I now feel a sense of emptiness without it. When I was a younger man I had a job that came with a near boundless supply of pride. I was part of a tradition over two-hundred years old. I was part of an organization which is recognized throughout the world as being one of the best at what they do. I was part of entity which was much greater than me. I was accepted by others because of I had accomplished. I had accomplished something that very few attempt, and even fewer succeed. My sense of accomplishment grew as I watched some of my cohorts become unable to handle the absurdly high demands of the Marine Corps. There was so much action in my life that I have yet been unable to achieve the same level of adrenaline since then. I traveled the world, or at least the Pacific Rim, when I was a young man. Then, one day, that was all gone. I was looking forward to coming back to the real world and continuing my education, and I am still convinced I made the right decisions; but I desperately miss the sense of pride, accomplishment, action, and adventure that I enjoyed as a younger man.
This emptiness manifests itself in my psyche as the ghost of the rifle. There are times that, without a logical explanation, I can feel the rifle in my hands. I can feel the pistol grip in my left hand. I can bend my index finger to the exact angle needed to apply even force and squeeze the trigger for maximum accuracy. I can feel my stubby, sausage-like middle and ring fingers wedged in between the trigger guard and the notch in the pistol grip, in the space that was designed for only the meaty middle finger of a Marine with much stronger and more masculine hands than mine. I can mimic with precise accuracy the motion of moving my thumb from the right side of the pistol grip, quickly sliding it across the back of the grip, and moving it directly up from the base of my hand to move the selector switch from safe to semi. I can still feel the pressure of the buttstock in the cusp in my shoulder formed at the point where the deltoid muscle meets the pectoral muscle. I see everything as though it were over the top of my rifle sights. I feel my eyes darting to and fro, looking for hostile targets. My muscles remember the exact motion it takes to move the rifle to firing position and get two well-aimed rounds off within one second. All of this has become a reflex to me because of the immense training I received as a young man. I hate this feeling.
This ghost reminds me of the higher calling I once had, and the boredom of my current life. This ghost is telling me that I am more important that the position in life I occupy now. I must not succumb to the ghost. I must not regret my current life. I must not listen to what the ghost is telling me. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald knew this same ghost, and I believe he succumbed to its message. Oswald was a former Marine who spent his entire life after his service trying to make himself more important than he was. Shortly after his discharge he defected to the Soviet Union, thinking that an American defector would be treated as a hero in the communist nation. Frustrated with his position as a simple factory worker in the U.S.S.R., he returned to America, and tried to become an influential member of the Communist Party in this country. Oswald eventually decided the quickest way for the world to recognize how important he was would be through political assination, and this is why we know his name today.
It seems to by that my aim in life now is to overcome this ghost. Perhaps I need to find another powerful force to conquer with Wu-Wei. It could be possible that I have to find a replacement for the pride, sense of accomplishment, action and adventure that ceased to be a part of my everyday life at the end of my enlistment. One thing is true, the ghost of the rifle has become my nemesis, and we are locked in battle.
09 May 2007
Friendship
I've gone through a difficult situation here recently (nothing important, just childish stuff on my part) I have been fortunate, however, that I had an opportunity to be around a bunch of jarheads the other day. As I was getting way too drunk and having a good time, I realized something, I am happiest when I am with Marines.
My roommate right now is my best friend from the Marine Corps. He is a cop and quite a few of his friends at work are former Marines also. We were at a South Side St. Patrick's Day party at one of the old jarhead's house, and about 6 or 7 of the guys there were old Marines, and after awhile we kind of floated off and formed our own group. (One guy in our little click wasn't a Marine, but his brother was and he is a cop, so he's an honorary member. Also, we were all ex-infantrymen except for one guy, but his dad was and old Marine grunt and refused to let his son be an infantryman, so he's honorary too.) The only two guys who had served together were Pat and I, and there was a Boston Fire Fighter thrown into the mix, but we all acted like we had been friends since the first day of grammar school. It wasn't even that we were sitting around telling old jarhead stories. (Although it did develop into a sea stories pissing contest at some point) The next day looking back on it I realized how much different we are than everyone else. There is a certain reckless enjoyment of life, bombasticism, and baseless egotism that we have, and it makes life a lot of fun. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends from high school and college, but there is a certain something about when I am around Marines that makes me really enjoy life.
The fact of the matter is everyday that separates me from my enlistment (days that now outnumber my days of service) I love the Marine Corps more and more. This is an odd turn of events because when I was in the Marines I hated the Corps more and more every second that passed. That is really starting to bother me. I am worried that I am attempting to live in the "glory days" of my youth. I'm worried I'm becoming an "Al Bundy four-touchdowns-in-one-game" type, but most of my old jarhead friends have told me they feel the exact same way. I guess that I am coming to terms with the fact that no matter what I do with the rest of my life, I'm still going to simply see myself as a Marine. To me, The Marine Corps is a life-defining experience. (Sadly this means I reached my zenith when I was 19) It is also much more. The only comparison I can make is that the Marine Corps is more like a religion than anything else, and friends I have drank the Kool-Aid.
It is in this line of thinking that I have come across and interesting philosophical paradox. The Marine Corps is such a miserable, dirty, dangerous, painful, exploitive, manipulative, physically and mentally scarring, soul-crushing experience that I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy; but I would recommend it to my best friend. That, my internet friends, is some sick shit.
My roommate right now is my best friend from the Marine Corps. He is a cop and quite a few of his friends at work are former Marines also. We were at a South Side St. Patrick's Day party at one of the old jarhead's house, and about 6 or 7 of the guys there were old Marines, and after awhile we kind of floated off and formed our own group. (One guy in our little click wasn't a Marine, but his brother was and he is a cop, so he's an honorary member. Also, we were all ex-infantrymen except for one guy, but his dad was and old Marine grunt and refused to let his son be an infantryman, so he's honorary too.) The only two guys who had served together were Pat and I, and there was a Boston Fire Fighter thrown into the mix, but we all acted like we had been friends since the first day of grammar school. It wasn't even that we were sitting around telling old jarhead stories. (Although it did develop into a sea stories pissing contest at some point) The next day looking back on it I realized how much different we are than everyone else. There is a certain reckless enjoyment of life, bombasticism, and baseless egotism that we have, and it makes life a lot of fun. Don't get me wrong, I love my friends from high school and college, but there is a certain something about when I am around Marines that makes me really enjoy life.
The fact of the matter is everyday that separates me from my enlistment (days that now outnumber my days of service) I love the Marine Corps more and more. This is an odd turn of events because when I was in the Marines I hated the Corps more and more every second that passed. That is really starting to bother me. I am worried that I am attempting to live in the "glory days" of my youth. I'm worried I'm becoming an "Al Bundy four-touchdowns-in-one-game" type, but most of my old jarhead friends have told me they feel the exact same way. I guess that I am coming to terms with the fact that no matter what I do with the rest of my life, I'm still going to simply see myself as a Marine. To me, The Marine Corps is a life-defining experience. (Sadly this means I reached my zenith when I was 19) It is also much more. The only comparison I can make is that the Marine Corps is more like a religion than anything else, and friends I have drank the Kool-Aid.
It is in this line of thinking that I have come across and interesting philosophical paradox. The Marine Corps is such a miserable, dirty, dangerous, painful, exploitive, manipulative, physically and mentally scarring, soul-crushing experience that I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy; but I would recommend it to my best friend. That, my internet friends, is some sick shit.
Welcome
Greetings All:
This blog is dedicated to those that are like me, and have a hard time dealing with the fact that, even though we have been away from the United States Marine Corps for some time, still see themselves as a "Marine." Perhaps we can work together to figure out what the hell is wrong with with us.
Semper Fi:
Scumdog0331
This blog is dedicated to those that are like me, and have a hard time dealing with the fact that, even though we have been away from the United States Marine Corps for some time, still see themselves as a "Marine." Perhaps we can work together to figure out what the hell is wrong with with us.
Semper Fi:
Scumdog0331
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