billyonaire

10:25 pm: Remembering Pearl Harbor
I'm really not too torn up about it, but it was interesting that today the USF library had evacuated the top couple floors to deal with donated WWII artifacts that included a live grenade.

What is bothering me is that I can't seem to get moving on this paper. It was due this past Sunday. I'd completely neglected the online class and now I have hell to pay. Or will it just be $10,000? I have all my references. I have all the facts and figures I need. I have an outline. I have the mental strength to push through difficult tasks, yet every time I sit down and stare at this nearly blank document, I just want to get up and go do something else. I need to write more simply to be comfortable with my fingers dancing across the keyboard. I need to be able to type as fast as I can think so those moments of brilliance and clarity can be recorded in some manner. My thoughts get away too quickly.

02:49 am: Hello again! I think I'll be writing a little more here because I need the therapeutic release I get in writing. However, not now because finals are upon me, and I've royally screwed myself over for tomorrow's test.

Good night!

11:45 pm: Rabid Rabbits!
I've been sipping on a beer Deborah got me for St. Valentine's Day. I'm buzzed enough to disregard the accumulating work/homework that I have amounted and spend a few minutes writing about some recent events.

The Valentine's weekend was fantastically enjoyable. We attended the Military Mardi Gras Ball in Mobile (though we couldn't get tipsy because I wasn't able to reserve a room, thus we drove back to Pensacola) and witnessed the spectacular commotion that is Mobile's Mardi Gras. She took me on a double date the following day for pizza and a movie, and she got me chocolate and beer. Last month was our anniversary, and since I covered and organized that, she did Valentine's. I think what really made that weekend great was how nothing worked exactly as planned. I do not recommend watching "Wolfman" for a date.

This past weekend, I visited St. Petersburg. USF College of Marine Science has already accepted me, but they flew me down and paid for my hotel. Our itinerary wasn't particularly hectic, but after two days of walking, touring, talking, and listening to presentations, I was exhausted. I'm concerned that it would get unbearably hot in--I was about to say the summer, but to be honest, it would be unbearable anytime other than the winter. However, they have some amazing resources. I like that NOAA, USGS, Fish and Wildlife, FWC, and USCG are so close. The high concentration of marine scientists makes the area particularly attractive. In addition, SRI International (the people who helped develop the internet and the computer mouse) and the Center for Oceanic Technology (a USF program) aid in developing novel technologies for oceanographic research, a resource according to the program that many other highly rated oceanography programs do not have.

I'd like to hear from UW. After attending the recruitment event, I lost a lot of hope for UW. Almost all the other applicants also applied to UW. If I had known it was as prestigious, maybe I would have tried harder on the application.

I wonder how another long distance relationship will pan out. I read on the news yesterday that several airmen at Eglin AFB were struck by lightning. No matter how illogical it seems, I feel that if I try to keep things going, God will strike again, to deliberately punish me.

Speaking of God, I went to church for Ash Wednesday. I felt as uncomfortable there this weekend as last, though the pastor was much more compelling in his homely. He incorporated science and logic into the service, and I hope it reflects a shift in paradigm throughout the church, and not just his interpretation. His examples were of wildfires in the forest. The burns are necessary for many trees to start new life, and as such, we need the ash, representative of sacrifice, so that we may renew ourselves. I thought it was appropriate and humble of him and the church to recognize that many christian traditions are of pagan origin and incorporated into our practices.

Even with as much apparent reform in the church, I still feel that abandoned describes my spiritual beliefs the best.

I don't even know how to appropriately transition from the previous discussion to the next, nor do I know what the next topic will be. All I know is that I'm out of beer. It was a Rogue Dead Guy Ale. My older brother didn't like it. Oh! Family. I can talk about family. I saw my cousin in Tampa this past weekend. We talked some. She's been successful, but the economy has been hard on her as well. I won't go into great detail, but she was a morning radio personality on the largest station in Tampa. She told me that though she was very public about her life on the radio, it made her more introverted in private. We talked about years past when we'd go sledding in Illinois, or how our parents may have behaved as they grew up in the sixties and seventies. I may have to talk to my dad about it, just to see if I've been naive all along.

This summer, I expect to either go home to Georgia (for no more than a few weeks), get a job/start research at a graduate institution, or pick up a drum corps staff position and tour. The three options I've created for myself exclude spending time with Deborah. I desperately want to include her in my plans, but who knows how things will pan out.

It has been well over half an hour since I started, so I will wrap up this post with a dose of nostalgia. I contacted Margret's sister on facebook because I wanted to see if Margret may have pictures of our robot. I did so because I saw Matt was a mentor for a high school's team. It sparked my interest especially since I'm currently wearing my robotics team's shirt. It reminded me of work that COT and SRI do for USF. I wonder if this is supernatural guidance to follow the engineering to my destiny.

Anyway, have a good night. I do not apologize for incoherence, at least not until I'm sober.

04:39 am: Grad School Worries
The noise in my head has kept me from drifting into unconsciousness for too long. I blame my absolutely silent fan for not drowning out my thoughts.

Yesterday I mounted a shelf on my wall and placed plaques and awards I’ve earned for the past seven years on it. Today I finally put up the matted group photos from marching band, drum corps, and Coast Guard. The floor in my room is still a disaster, but I feel more at ease now that I’m able to glance up and see my achievements. As unorganized as I am, it is a miracle that I accomplish anything at all. Tomorrow I will finish cleaning up my room.

Though I am proud of my achievements, and I recognize that it took more than my efforts alone to get me through many of my struggles, I can’t help but feel selfish. I have devoted one wall, the largest wall in my bedroom, to place family photos. Acquiring the appropriate photographs will be difficult, but well worth it. My family deserves all my respect and gratitude.

I am writing tonight because I don’t feel comfortable calling anybody at three-thirty in the morning. By no means is my insomnia an emergency situation and I do not wish to suggest that I have no friends that I couldn’t call at three-thirty in the morning. I hold many friends in high esteem, and I think they for the most part reciprocate the sentiment. Unfortunately, years will pass without significant communication, and the disconnection creates difficulty in re-establishing context. It is simpler to write.

Doing grad school research yesterday has fueled me with a lust for tomorrow. My future is a lump of putty, and I’m a craftsman. I’m a poor craftsman. Financially I’m struggling. Sometimes I say I’m doing fine, but I know my debt will catch me soon. I wonder whether grad school is worth the effort.

The Marine Science School at USF in St. Petersburg captured my attention yesterday. The website is attractive, and from photographs, St. Petersburg looks beautiful. According to a cost of living calculator, I will have to earn 13% more in St. Petersburg to maintain the quality of life I have established in Pensacola. Considering the cost of moving, housing, books, food, and ancillary expenses, I may as well sleep in a carousel in the library. Its where all grad students spend their time, anyway, right?

Others on the list include University of Washington, LSU, FSU, UWF, and maybe USA. By far the simplest option would be UWF. I think with some hard work, I can get a “free” M.S. UW is my dream pick, though the out-of-state grad tuition rate is nothing to sneeze at. Of the remaining, I’d pick FSU over LSU, though I have a several contacts at LSU, and it would make it easier on my future Coast Guard career.

I want to get out of Pensacola. I have four reliable contacts in Seattle to help me with housing and job opportunities if I try to establish residency first. But why move that far? I actually like Pensacola a lot. My roots are well established and it nourishes me just fine, so why transplant? Could I survive in Seattle? Will St. Pete or Baton Rouge or Tallahassee give me more room to grow? And why am I doing this anyway?

If I turned on the lights, I could look up at the corps I’ve marched with in the past. The more time passes since my age-out performance, the less likely it is that I’ll ever be able to return to that environment. Dwight offered me a job as a visual tech for 2008. I could be wearing a fat world championship ring. Though the money would not be sufficient, the passion I had for the activity would still burn vigorously. At the moment, it feels more like a solitary flickering flame. I want to work with a group where we all push towards the same goal, where perfection is possible, but requires an extraordinary amount of investment.

Can I fool myself into thinking that grad school will be the same? Spirit, Phantom Regiment, and Basic Training X-179 all had in common the company formation mentality. In college and the real world, I’m an individual. My motivation must be self-induced. I don’t think it is one of my strong points, but I’d never tell an employer that.

So what are my motivations? I want to prove to my parents that they raised me right. I want to raise my own family and see my children develop, struggle, overcome, and succeed. I want to fulfill childhood dreams. I want to contribute to a better society. I want to protect my home, whether it is my house, my country, or my planet. I want to experience diversity in life. I want to be good to my wife.

As I evaluate my motivations for going to USF in particular, I play that terrible “what if” game I swore I’d never play again after 2004. Why do I want oceanography? Am I just fulfilling a promise I made to Erin a long time ago? Every time I think “St. Pete,” I hear Mrs. Ellickson’s voice repeat it. I hear the stories about family trips to visit relatives. I remember that terrible night in March 2003. I picked oceanography partially because Erin was doing marine biology. How cute, right?

What role will Deborah play in my life?

I sleep better when I am with her. I don’t get as much sleep, but the quality is significantly improved over sleeping alone.

Speaking of sleep, I think writing has done its trick.

09:11 pm: I'm sitting in the library.
As I work on Project 2 for Technical Writing, I keep exchanging glances with the girl sitting across the computer tables. She is very cute. However, she just walked away, and I noticed the feature that disturbs me the most. Excessive elbow skin!

Anyway, I'm pretty enthusiastic about this project except for finding sources for the assignment. Am I supposed to find sources on how to improve a website or sources that support the information on the website? It is due tomorrow, and I don't think I can b.s. through this one. The library closes in 40 minutes.

I'll get back to work.

09:48 pm: I wrote this about a week ago.
Today I slept in.

At 0615 my alarm chimes. I set it earlier than normal for a Friday to allow time for uniform maintenance, but it is certainly more pleasing than the 0520 for the previous week. Last night I washed my clothes, but because I was finishing the homework for the day, I had not ironed my blouse or rolled its sleeves.

Today I enjoyed my breakfast.

I have time this morning to order an omelet with ham, cheese, bell peppers, onions, and tomatoes. Normally I scarf an egg, a smattering of breakfast potatoes, and some honeydew, banana and yogurt for sustenance in the morning. I don’t usually taste much of it because there is little time available between morning physical training and muster for movement.

Today I relaxed.

We muster in front of LaFayette Hall at 0745 MST time, which is seven minutes ahead of real time. Our class advisor had adjusted the classroom clock to ensure we would ALWAYS be on time. After breakfast, I brush my teeth and sit down for a minute before taking my place in formation.

Today I observed colors.

The custom at Training Center Yorktown is that all “A” school students observe colors on Friday mornings. We arrive first, as usual. Our class leader marches us column left onto the parade field where we face the flag staff and stand at parade rest while other classes form to our left and behind us.

It isn’t without a little commotion that this task is accomplished. Each class has a designated student calling cadence. In that modified-military tone, he sings out, “Left, right on left, left right, left-right, right left.” I hear them chant in minor and augmented keys, and my favorite, though the particular class graduated not too long ago, in a blues style.

In time with him are his classmates. Boon-dockers and low-quarters strike the pavement in rhythm. Class leaders guide their classes onto the field. The trooping softens to a shuffling as the grass absorbs the heavy tread. Class halt. Left face. Parade rest. These commands carry over the parade field.

Lining the edges of the field and sporadically about the sidewalks are visitors. They are here to witness the graduation of their loved ones. I see in their faces awe at the spectacle before them. The synchronized movements impress upon them the significance of military order which makes the armed services function efficiently and effectively. They support our nation by supporting their family and friends, and their pride shows.

As the final class settles on the field, first call sounds from the pipes. It is five minutes before morning colors will be hoisted. The murmurs and stirring all but disappear as silence settles in. Occasionally a camera shutter releases, but the stillness is otherwise uninterrupted. It is during this time that I start to experience stimuli from other senses. North of us, the York River laps against the rip-rap at the base of a wall. Strong breezes sway branches overhead. Leaves slide past each other, creating that familiar sweeping sound so often ignored. The scent of dew and grass wafts from below; the wind carries it off before it becomes overpowering. Even from behind clouds, warmth radiating from the morning sun indicates that it will be hot today. For now, it is a welcome sensation.

An EM “A” class graduates today. They are dressed in bravo jackets. Directly in front of us and next to the graduating class stands the newly formed MST “A” class. They are required to wear the tropical long uniform for the first week. All other classes wear the operational dress uniform. Though the pairing happened coincidentally, it is perhaps this that caused me to record the morning’s details. Spectators may find it difficult distinguishing the discipline demonstrated by either class. However, from my position behind the two classes, I see confidence and uncertainty. The new class keeps their military bearing out of fear, or trepidation if you will. This is the first time they stand in front of Yorktown’s commanding officer. The graduating class keeps their composure with a collective calm. They know the drill. They know what is expected of them. And they are ready to disperse to all parts of the country, joining the rest of the fleet as maritime guardians.

The pipes sound again. Five minutes have past and now it is attention to colors. In an explosion of smoke and powder, two guns fire. The first notes of the “Star-Spangled Banner” magnificently echo across the field. Hand salute. Our national ensign smartly ascends the staff, and a moment later billows and boasts its stripes and stars as the wind reveals it to the observers on the parade field.

Our instructors, advisors, and other permanent party on base remind us on a regular basis that we are seated in the birthplace of the United States. It was here, with the assistance from the French navy that we were able to defeat General Cornwallis and turn the tide of the revolution. Sometimes that fact is lost on us as we focus on our studies, or kick back and relax after a brutal week. But the evidence is there. In order to leave base, we must drive through battlefields. If we choose to go to the beach, Yorktown serves to preserve our history. The bluffs have caves in which villagers had escaped siege and shelling.

During runs in the morning, our PT instructor stops us, allows us to catch our breath, and knock out a few push-ups for good measure. Then, before taking off again, the instructor will silence us for a moment. We hear early birds chirping away, crickets and other sorts of insects making all sorts of a ruckus. As we appreciate the wilderness, we are reminded that this is often what young revolutionaries experienced before preparing themselves and flint-locks for the days struggles.

As our anthem continues, more recent conflicts come to mind. It isn’t the success of war, or the repercussions of such a massive loss of life that impact me. Hearing the tune at “the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air gave proof through the night that our flag was still there” affects me deeply to think of Mr. Key so moved to write those words. It is the passion of any individual that chooses respond with devotion to duty. It is the zeal with which honor and respect for ourselves, our service members, our country.

It is gravity that drives the bass line down and back up, supporting the melody, counter-melody, and rhythm. The majesty of the music rings out over the “land of the free and the home of the brave.”

Carry on.

The battalion disperses. Class leaders assume direction again. We march off the field, stopping frequently to let other formations have their right of way on the road. We stop at Hamilton Hall and file in from the right column. In the classroom, the scent of brewing coffee discourages any thoughts of return to a dream-state. We pull out the books and references we need for the day and begin the daily grind.

10:44 pm: Today I slept in.
Today I slept in.

At 0615 my alarm chimes. I set it earlier than normal for a Friday to allow time for uniform maintenance, but it is certainly more pleasing than the 0520 for the previous week. Last night I washed my clothes, but because I was finishing the homework for the day, I had not ironed my blouse or rolled its sleeves.

Today I enjoyed my breakfast.

I have time this morning to order an omelet with ham, cheese, bell peppers, onions, and tomatoes. Normally I scarf an egg, a smattering of breakfast potatoes, and some honeydew, banana and yogurt for sustenance in the morning. I don’t usually taste much of it because there is little time available between morning physical training and muster for movement.

Today I relaxed.

We muster in front of LaFayette Hall at 0745 MST time, which is seven minutes ahead of real time. Our class advisor had adjusted the classroom clock to ensure we would ALWAYS be on time. After breakfast, I brush my teeth and sit down for a minute before taking my place in formation.

Today I observed colors.

The custom at Training Center Yorktown is that all “A” school students observe colors on Friday mornings. We arrive first, as usual. Our class leader marches us column left onto the parade field where we face the flag staff and stand at parade rest while other classes form to our left and behind us.

It isn’t without a little commotion that this task is accomplished. Each class has a designated student calling cadence. In that modified-military tone, he sings out, “Left, right on left, left right, left-right, right left.” I hear them chant in minor and augmented keys, and my favorite, though the particular class graduated not too long ago, in a blues style.

In time with him are his classmates. Boon-dockers and low-quarters strike the pavement in rhythm. Class leaders guide their classes onto the field. The trooping softens to a shuffling as the grass absorbs the heavy tread. Class halt. Left face. Parade rest. These commands carry over the parade field.

Lining the edges of the field and sporadically about the sidewalks are visitors. They are here to witness the graduation of their loved ones. I see in their faces awe at the spectacle before them. The synchronized movements impress upon them the significance of military order which makes the armed services function efficiently and effectively. They support our nation by supporting their family and friends, and their pride shows.

As the final class settles on the field, first call sounds from the pipes. It is five minutes before morning colors will be hoisted. The murmurs and stirring all but disappear as silence settles in. Occasionally a camera shutter releases, but the stillness is otherwise uninterrupted. It is during this time that I start to experience stimuli from other senses. North of us, the York River laps against the rip-rap at the base of a wall. Strong breezes sway branches overhead. Leaves slide past each other, creating that familiar sweeping sound so often ignored. The scent of dew and grass wafts from below; the wind carries it off before it becomes overpowering. Even from behind clouds, warmth radiating from the morning sun indicates that it will be hot today. For now, it is a welcome sensation.

An EM “A” class graduates today. They are dressed in bravo jackets. Directly in front of us and next to the graduating class stands the newly formed MST “A” class. They are required to wear the tropical long uniform for the first week. All other classes wear the operational dress uniform. Though the pairing happened coincidentally, it is perhaps this that caused me to record the morning’s details. Spectators may find it difficult distinguishing the discipline demonstrated by either class. However, from my position behind the two classes, I see confidence and uncertainty. The new class keeps their military bearing out of fear, or trepidation if you will. This is the first time they stand in front of Yorktown’s commanding officer. The graduating class keeps their composure with a collective calm. They know the drill. They know what is expected of them. And they are ready to disperse to all parts of the country, joining the rest of the fleet as maritime guardians.

The pipes sound again. Five minutes have past and now it is attention to colors. In an explosion of smoke and powder, two guns fire. The first notes of the “Star-Spangled Banner” magnificently echo across the field. Hand salute. Our national ensign smartly ascends the staff, and a moment later billows and boasts its stripes and stars as the wind reveals it to the observers on the parade field.

Our instructors, advisors, and other permanent party on base remind us on a regular basis that we are seated in the birthplace of the United States. It was here, with the assistance from the French navy that we were able to defeat General Cornwallis and turn the tide of the revolution. Sometimes that fact is lost on us as we focus on our studies, or kick back and relax after a brutal week. But the evidence is there. In order to leave base, we must drive through battlefields. If we choose to go to the beach, Yorktown serves to preserve our history. The bluffs have caves in which villagers had escaped siege and shelling.

During runs in the morning, our PT instructor stops us, allows us to catch our breath, and knock out a few push-ups for good measure. Then, before taking off again, the instructor will silence us for a moment. We hear early birds chirping away, crickets and other sorts of insects making all sorts of a ruckus. As we appreciate the wilderness, we are reminded that this is often what young revolutionaries experienced before preparing themselves and flint-locks for the days struggles.

As our anthem continues, more recent conflicts come to mind. It isn’t the success of war, or the repercussions of such a massive loss of life that impact me. Hearing the tune at “the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air gave proof through the night that our flag was still there” affects me deeply to think of Mr. Key so moved to write those words. It is the passion of any individual that chooses respond with devotion to duty. It is the zeal with which honor and respect for ourselves, our service members, our country.

It is gravity that drives the bass line down and back up, supporting the melody, counter-melody, and rhythm. The majesty of the music rings out over the “land of the free and the home of the brave.”

Carry on.

The battalion disperses. Class leaders assume direction again. We march off the field, stopping frequently to let other formations have their right of way on the road. We stop at Hamilton Hall and file in from the right column. In the classroom, the scent of brewing coffee discourages any thoughts of return to a dream-state. We pull out the books and references we need for the day and begin the daily grind.

09:07 pm: TRACEN Cape May does blogs
Check out how other companies are doing at the Coast Guard Basic Training blog. It seems they started this PR about three months after I graduated. Granted not all companies are the same and some of the curriculum has changed, but overall the content of the updates summarize what I went through last summer--if such intensity can ever be captured in this media. http://uscgbootcamp.com/go/doctype/763/27287/

June 8 is my convening date for marine science technician A-school in Yorktown, VA. I expect to be gone for 13 weeks.

01:16 am: Just watched Twilight, and I hate to admit that I kind of liked it.
In other news, it has been a while, hasn't it?

I just want to make a short statement before I head to bed.

It would be nice to hold someone/something and say with the fullest sincerity, "All I have ever wanted is in my arms." Unfortunately, I'm not that type of person.

12:37 am: WindI
It sounds like some elephants are humping on our roof. The wind is blowing the vent, making it spin and squeak and thump in rhythm. It picks up and dies down, just as I imagine two elephants would on a roof. Or on a spider's silk thread. Ignore that.

Regardless, I have always believed that wind is the most effective and reliable source of energy. Ever since over ten years ago. Sometimes I get the sense that people don't believe me. I remember back in third grade making drafts of vehicles that are powered (or almost entirely supplied) by replenishible resources. Of course back then I didn't understand the first law of thermodynamics.

I also wanted to be a welder.

But, I wish I had the money or the savvy to make this house self sustainable. I want to grow my own vegetables and check on my solar panels and wind turbines to be sure they are all in working order.

I don't know what I'm saying. Goodnight.