letters from Nam

Dear Roberta,

Today is probably the worst day I have ever lived in my entire, short life. Once again we were in contact with Charlie, and once again we suffered losses. The losses we had today hit home, as my best friend in this shit hole was killed. He was only 22 years old and was going on R&R on the first of June to meet his wife in Hawaii. I feel that if I was only a half second sooner in pulling the trigger, he would still be alive.

Strange how short a time a half of a second is--the difference between life and death. This morning we were talking about how we were only two years different in age and how we both had gotten married before coming to this place. You know, I can still feel his presence as I write this letter and hope that I am able to survive and leave this far behind me.

If there is a place called Hell this surely must be it, and we must be the Devil's disciples doing all his dirty work. I keep asking myself if there is a God, then how the hell come young men with so much to live for have to die. I just hope that his death is not in vain.

I look forward to the day when I will take my R&R. If I play my cards right, I should be able to get it for Hawaii so our anniversary will be in that time frame. The reason I say this is by Sept., I will have more than enough time in country to get my pick of places and dates. I promise I will do everything necessary to insure that I make that date, and I hope that tomorrow is quiet.

We will be going into base camp soon for our three-day stand down. I will try to write you a longer letter at that time. Please don't worry too much about me, as if you won't, for I will take care of myself and look forward to the day I am able to be with you again.

Love,
Stan

tuesday lists.

i hate when your going to bed but there's nothing planned for you tomorrow. you have absolutely nothing to do. its a little depressing thinking about it. like, what can i do that will take up loads and loads of time? so then you make a list of all the possible things:

laundry

put sheets on bed*

card

collage box

start working on paper**

clean room***

read, and read some more - coffee included

summer classes

find cheap tickets to chicago.****

*i'm going to bed with out any sheets on my bed, its just the bare bones of comforters and pillows tonight.

**this is actually really important, this paper is going to be hard. i guess i'll be in peets tomorrow, as per usual.

***i.e. my closet. i.e. throw away a bunch of shit and stop being a pack-rat. i.e. get ready to move. ... that can be my job over the summer.

****this is VERY important. vacation away from home :)

lost/startrek.

greg, i think you would enjoy this as much as i did.

you know you

should quit when your cigarette frowns at you.

Mary Anne

What happened to her, Rat said, was what happened to all of them. You come over clean and you get dirty and then afterward it's never the same. A question of degree. Some make it intact, some don't make it at all. For Mary Anne Bell, it seemed, Vietnam had the effect of a powerful drug: that mix of unnamed terror and unnamed pleasure that comes as the needle slips in and you know you're risking something. The endorphins start to flow, and then adrenaline, and you hold your breath and creep quietly through the moonlit nightscapes; you become intimate with danger; you're in touch with the far side of yourself, as though it's another hemisphere, and you want to string it out and go wherever the trip takes you and be host to all the possibilities inside yourself. Not bad, she'd said. Vietnam made her glow in the dark. She wanted more, she wanted to penetrate deeper into the mystery of herself, and after a time the wanting became needing, which turned then to craving.

your making me sick.

i wanted to write you a letter,

i've been dreaming in black and white. i've been dreaming that my phone keeps ringing. its an important call, but i keep missing it. i constantly look at my phone but there's always missed calls.

i wanted to write you a letter, 

but i can't because it would sound like i am leaving. i want to tell you i feel lost, i don't know where i want to be. my only joy is the drive from point a to point b. my emotions are askew. i feel like i am drifting, not away. i have no control over the current. but i am disconnected. i can feel it when i talk. i can feel it when i watch. but then again, i also feel betrayed. i can taste the lies vomiting out of my mouth, like i haven't brushed my teeth in days - that fuzzy coating of plaque forever glued to my pearly whites. i'm not apart of it anymore, inside that hurts me but i know it hurts others more. this world is bigger than us. i am tiny, i am small. i want to tell you i'm confused. you know the trust game? where you fall straight back into the others arms? i can't play it because i always take the last step to save myself. but i don't think you could catch me, your knees would buckle under my weight. we'd crash to the floor. is that trust? i can smell your skin, its not sweet. i'm sweating, the backs of my knees are dripping. i switch into third. sorry, my car can only go so fast. i switch to fourth. FUCK OFF. i speed up. my speedometer hits ninety, but we know thats really only less than seventy. they cut in front. god, fuck you. i switch lanes. relax. its a highway. relax. it doesn't matter. relax. dug is tired. i'm sitting in the parking lot, i want to tell you that i don't care. i want to tell you i don't know what love is. i want to tell you i am empty. my insides are gone. you took them out, tied them together, and threw them over the telephone wire. you bitch. i needed those. i run for the telephone post. i am skin and bone. my bones grind. i climb the post. i have nothing to lose. bitch. if i fall i am just bones. fucking bitch. i want to tell you it doesn't matter. it does.

i wanted to write more,