to all my loved ones, near and far, i wish you a happy thanksgiving and a safe holiday weekend.

take a moment, as i will, to reflect on that which you are thankful for - remember that life is a gift, a journey, and the joy and wonder are in the trip and the destination, not the current hill you might be laboring against.

i love you all - mom, dad, jenny, kelly, your families, my aunts and uncles, and grandparents long gone. i will think of you all and enjoy my turkey pot pie...

once upon a midnight dreary, while i pondered weak and weary,
over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
while i nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'tis some visitor,' i muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
only this, and nothing more.'

ah, distinctly i remember it was in the bleak december,
and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
eagerly i wished the morrow; - vainly i had sought to borrow
from my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost lenore -
for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named lenore -
nameless here for evermore.

and the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
so that now, to still the beating of my heart, i stood repeating
`'tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
this it is, and nothing more,'

presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`sir,' said i, `or madam, truly your forgiveness i implore;
but the fact is i was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
that i scarce was sure i heard you' - here i opened wide the door; -
darkness there, and nothing more.

deep into that darkness peering, long i stood there wondering, fearing,
doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
but the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `lenore!'
this i whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `lenore!'
merely this and nothing more.

back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
soon again i heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`surely,' said i, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'tis the wind and nothing more!'

open here i flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
in there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
but, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
perched upon a bust of pallas just above my chamber door -
perched, and sat, and nothing more.

then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' i said, `art sure no craven.
ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore!'
quoth the raven, `nevermore.'

much i marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
with such name as `nevermore.'

but the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
till i scarcely more than muttered `other friends have flown before -
on the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
then the bird said, `nevermore.'

startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`doubtless,' said i, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
of "never-nevermore."'

but the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
straight i wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
then, upon the velvet sinking, i betook myself to linking
fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
what this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
meant in croaking `nevermore.'

this i sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
this and more i sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
on the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
but whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
she shall press, ah, nevermore!

then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`wretch,' i cried, `thy god hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of lenore!
quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost lenore!'
quoth the raven, `nevermore.'

`prophet!' said i, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
on this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, i implore -
is there - is there balm in gilead? - tell me - tell me, i implore!'
quoth the raven, `nevermore.'

`prophet!' said i, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
by that heaven that bends above us - by that god we both adore -
tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant aidenn,
it shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named lenore -
clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named lenore?'
quoth the raven, `nevermore.'

`be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' i shrieked upstarting -
`get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore!
leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
quoth the raven, `nevermore.'

and the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
on the pallid bust of pallas just above my chamber door;
and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
and the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
shall be lifted - nevermore!

some veterans bear visible signs of their service: a missing limb, a jagged scar, a certain look in the eye. others may carry the evidence inside them: a pin holding a bone together, a piece of shrapnel in the leg - or perhaps another sort of inner steel: the soul's ally forged in the refinery of adversity. except in parades, however, the men and women who have kept america safe wear no badge or emblem. you can't tell a vet just by looking.

he is the cop on the beat who spent six months in saudi arabia sweating two gallons a day making sure the armored personnel carriers didn't run out of fuel.

he is the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden planks, whose overgrown frat-boy behavior is outweighed a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four hours of exquisite bravery near the 38th parallel.

she - or he - is the nurse who fought against futility and went to sleep sobbing every night for two solid years in da nang.

he is the pow who went away one person and came back another – or didn't come back at all.

he is the quantico drill instructor who has never seen combat - but has saved countless lives by turning slouchy, no-account rednecks and gang members into marines, and teaching them to watch each other's backs.

he is the parade-riding legionnaire who pins on his ribbons and medals with a prosthetic hand.

he is the career quartermaster who watches the ribbons and medals pass him by.

he is the three anonymous heroes in the tomb of the unknowns, whose presence at the arlington national cemetery must forever preserve the memory of all the anonymous heroes whose valor dies unrecognized with them on the battlefields.

he is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket - palsied now and aggravatingly slow - who helped liberate a nazi death camp and who wishes all day long that his wife were still alive to hold him when the nightmares come.

he is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human being - a person who offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country, and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs.

he is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing more than the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation ever known.

so remember, each time you see someone who has served our country, just lean over and say thank you. that's all most people need, and in most cases it will mean more than any medals they could have been awarded or were awarded. two little words that mean a lot, "thank you."

"it is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press.
it is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech.
it is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.
it is the soldier, who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protestor to burn the flag."

father denis edward o'brien, usmc

get 'em while they're hot...

after winning several archery contests, the young and rather boastful champion challenged a zen master who was renowned for his skill as an archer.

the young man demonstrated remarkable technical proficiency when he hit a distant bull's eye on his first try, and then split that arrow with his second shot.

"there," he said to the old man, "see if you can match that!"

undisturbed, the master did not draw his bow, but rather motioned for the young archer to follow him up the mountain.

curious about the old fellow's intentions, the champion followed him high into the mountain until they reached a deep chasm spanned by a rather flimsy and shaky log.

calmly stepping out onto the middle of the unsteady and certainly perilous bridge, the old master picked a far away tree as a target, drew his bow, and fired a clean, direct hit.

"now it is your turn," he said as he gracefully stepped back onto the safe ground.

staring with terror into the seemingly bottomless and beckoning abyss, the young man could not force himself to step out onto the log, no less shoot at a target.

"you have much skill with your bow," the master said, sensing his challenger's predicament, "but you have little skill with the mind that lets loose the shot."

it's over. the sleeping pills are not working. i'm wired for sound, and wish that sleep would come, bring an interlude, something. anything.

i was over at ars, reading the forum, and someone posted this:

"still going strong, still captivated by her ocean eyes and her dirty laugh, the way she strides out unafraid into the world, the way she sings songs to our cats. the way we love each other"

you people that have that, congratulations. there are those amongst us that have striven for that, reached for that, and never attained it. you've been blessed with spouses and partners that you love, that love you. what a wonderful thing, for this complete stranger to describe his wife like this, and bring tears to my eyes.

remember how lucky you are. and realize that some envy you that which you have been given.

i'm afraid to post here anymore. i made it through another day. i ate sushi today, took a nap tonight, and miss my little girl. for the first time in a long time, there were no calls, no messages, nothing. oddly quiet.

i suppose i should force myself to sleep, but maddie isn't here, and i have no desire to lie awake in the dark for the time it will take me to fall out.

she crawled into bed with me last night, cute little bugger, and was so warm and cuddly this morning it was all i could do to get up and out of bed, much less wake her and take her to her poppa's house.

her mother signed her up for gymnastics - and i missed the first day. i'm gonna try to make it next week, because i want to see her in her little outfit tumbling and rolling with the other kids...

and there has been a change to this place. see if you can find it - those of you who know, just say you do, no spoilers in the comments!!!

thank god.

vote. please. vote. i'm afraid for our country.