Ghost Warriors

War is defined as a conflict carried on by force of arms, as between nations or between parties within a nation; warfare, as by land, sea, or air. This definition fails to tell the truth. When it says “force of arms” it does not describe the physical aspect of the man or woman carrying the “arms.” When it says “between nations or between parties,” it does not give you the names of the thousands who carry the weight of the nation or party; or the countless who fulfill their orders to the last beat of their heart.

So much focus is lost when we dip the boots of combat service members in the politics that delivered those same boots to war. More focus is lost when those boots return home to a world that doesn’t understand the miles they tread. Some see veterans as damaged dangerous goods. Some view them as charity cases. Others don’t understand and don’t want to, but cast them to the shadows of a memory they would rather not be reminded of.

We Veterans, we service members that put our lives on hold to answer the call from our Country become ghost. Many times we don’t understand all we’ve been through, scared to speak the words that bring back the memories we try so hard to bury. We fight long after we stop garnering the front page of the newspapers, years after we are honorably mentioned in a news broadcast.  Politicians bring us up around election time, but they do not grand stand on bringing us home any earlier. The politicians boast the key words of soldiers and home; it belays the issues but gets the sympathetic attention that is respectable.

Hollywood makes spectacles of special operations that spanned one incident, grasping at a few days in the boots of a talented crew. But what about the rest? What about the double, triple, quadruple deployers? What about the nine months to years lost in the sands of foreign countries? We call them brave, heroic, and courageous for such sacrifice. Why does no one read between the lines of the thousands of lives lost? Of the thousands lives that served, and returned never to be the same?

These are the hard questions. Wounded Warriors, I’ve seen the bumper stickers on cars. There are so many different types of wounds inflicted by war, and again I ask a hard question… how do you define a wound? Is it the absence of a limb? Scars across our skin? What about the unseen injuries? To the ghost soldier returned, our war is often times invisible.

Not understanding, forgetting what use to be common place. Not being able to sleep. Jumping, heart racing at a stranger’s unintentional touch while in a crowd. Waiting for the sky to fall, waiting for something that when home we shouldn’t have to wait for. How do I pick out what clothes are appropriate to the wide variety of events there are? When will I stop vacuuming non-existent sand from my carpets? Night sweats. Waking up soaking wet from dreams I don’t recollect.

No one understands. But that’s just it… we, the service members, the Soldiers, Sailors, Marines, Airmen; we go to war so the 99% of the population will never understand, will never have to understand. No one counts the invisible cost into the trillions of dollars spent in war. No one knows it’s there; except for those that can’t disperse of its existence within our being.

To those that know exactly what I’m talking about, stay strong. The battle is over, but the war to fight and live a better life is one worth striving for every day. Duty, honor, country… we would die for; but family, the future, and our role within it is worth living for. “At ease,” they tell us when we must relax our stance but stay our post… do so in life, and continue to be the best part of America.

Maybe

Soldiers are the work force of defense.  How many jobs out there do you knowingly sign a document that enables your employer to endanger your life if need be?  Police officers, fire fighters, and some extreme few occupations demand something similar.  My hat is off to those individuals who fill those roles.  I dare say that there is a good number of law enforcement and first responders that are prior military.  I would not surmise to dictate why that is, but I would be willing to at least comment that the familiarity in the bargain of work and risk comes naturally to these few souls. 

Soldiers have many reasons for joining.  There are several benefits rewarded to the servants of this Nation such as education, health care, and so on.  The requirements of servitude far outweigh the monetary benefits… and in the case of the Ultimate Sacrifice, there is no compensation for a taken life. 

Many times, the public at home apply mental cosmetics to the reality of war abroad.  I dare you, in this singular post to strip away that costume of comfort for the unknown, and embrace a temporary fix of mental metabolic oxification.  It doesn’t get any more real than the acceptance of truth.  There is no one to blame.  We, the volunteers of a National Defense manifesto agreed to take up arms when called upon.  From as young as 17 years of age, to as old as age permits sound mind and body of an individual to perform the task of soldering, serve.  The family members’ experience pain all equally when the absence of their loved one is felt, physically and emotionally.  The Soldier feels the struggle as well, but adapts and marches on as ordered.  It is an extraordinary effort and skill for the human in that uniform to continually overcome loneliness, distance, and all that encompasses the theatre of operations.

 Deployments are not a vacation.  Yes, there is risk every day with in the safety of one’s home, on the streets of a neighborhood, or in the confines of U.S borders.  The elevated risk during War eclipses the worse day in history.  For the Soldier, every day incurs one or more names of those departed; a constant reminder of mortality.  For the Soldier, every day has the potential of being their Pearl Harbor, their September 11th.  War does that.  Those two named events had incredible loss of life in a matter of moments; war is that day multiplied by years with a continually growing list.

 Time is frozen.  Deployments are a cyclic repetition of one day… that spans over months to all those not in this country.  The temperature may vary in degrees, but the general consensus of, “it’s hot,” remains truer than generated numbers and data.  Our missions may start at different times to different parts of the country; yet all the land looks the same, the air quality is always lacking, and the numbers on the clock will roll over and over in that circular restraint.  While many gripe about the front page political debacle of the newspaper in the States, Soldiers are lucky to get the most updated Stars and Stripes… usually two to three days old.  When someone complains about traffic on the freeway or pot holes on the roads, soldiers are looking for IEDs and the faceless enemies that lie in cover waiting to do their worse. 

The truth. The Soldier is fully aware of what may be demanded while serving. The Soldier does not expect you to understand the experiences had during war; if the population of our Country knew the face of war, then we have failed to do our duty and protect you. Suffering and war will never end as long as man-kind walk the earth. Maybe, just maybe, through the service of defense we can continue to keep the brink of war from the eyes and memories of the masses. With prayer, maybe.

Perspective

Time is endless.  With that in mind, it also has never begun.  Mind boggling, I know.  Let’s get down to a manageable perspective that we may be able to imagine a little bit better; a life time.  For some, its short.  For others, they excel past the norm.  In my heart, I think myself lucky for still being alive at the age of 28 years.  In the years we are blessed with, we account for them on a day to day basis.  Throughout that day, we track the hours working ourselves into a methodical existence.  We wait, we rush, we complain, we sleep.  We spend a majority of our life span attempting to finance our existence of time we hope we’ll have in the future, not to mention the present with growing expenses at every tick of the second hand.

It is so very easy to get lost in the pattern.  Get up, go to work, come home, walk the dog, make dinner, go to bed.  Place human on “repeat.”  Our minds are placed in a “fast forward” mode attempting to ignore the daily grind until we can make it to the weekend to “unwind.”  I beg of you, break the mold!

Instead of constantly complaining about attributes in your life, troubleshoot a solution.  If you are always stuck in traffic on I-95 at 7:30 am, try leaving at 7 am or finding another route.  If you are consistently a buck short at the end of the month, try cutting out the cable bill (I promise life will continue if you do not have television).  Why waste your breath repeating the same complaints when you can do something to solve it?  If we spent 25% of our time and energy on working out solutions rather than doubting if something will work, our days would be happier and more productive.

I dare you to do it. Try it for a day, heck, try it for an hour!  Change your mental view around, and search for something better.  Then, those hours you attempt to forget about start to amount to something.  The next thing you know, your day is worth more than a “hump day.”  Instead of the weekend being the only sequence worth a memory, you find something meaningful throughout the week.  After all that, you can look back on 80 years worth of living and say, “God! Thank you for an amazing life!”

I am in a place where no hour is guaranteed.  Here one moment, gone the next.  If I am still able to power up my computer and type words to a screen, I count that as a fortunate moment.  Luxurious  even!  I learn something new at every opportunity.  From the negative occasions, I somehow find positive.  In my weakest of moments, I find strength in surviving.  With strangers I may never see again, I learn about places and people that make a difference to them.

Mother Teresa lived for 87 years.  She saw so many facets of existence upon this planet.  She saw much pain and sorrow.  I doubt she took pity on herself or those that she helped.  She didn’t see defeat, she saw hope in every face and hand she touched.  She controlled her perspective, and gave her heart to the universe.  I could only pray for such strength, courage, and outlook when facing the world in my boots… living hour to hour, day to day.  Accept the challenge, my friends.  Be the best you that you can be… right now.

Names on a Wall

Before I left for Afghanistan on my current deployment, I had the privilege of conducting mobilization training out of Fort Hood, Texas.  Most soldiers grumble about the stark and barren surrounding that we were placed in, but we weren’t here for vacation.  We were here to train for a specific theatre of combat operations that made Fort Hood an ideal location.  We trained from sunup until… well sunup on several occasions.  Looking back at the grueling tasks and schedule we fulfilled, I am thankful to have made it through with only one visit to the doc’s office.  Some were sent home with broken ribs or other injuries that were unfortunate accidents during training.

At the conclusion of our training cycle, quickly approaching our ship out date for the trip across the pond; we were granted a four day pass.  It was a last opportunity for some rest and relaxation.  Most hit the local cities for some partying, while others including myself spent the last remaining moments with our loved ones.  One of my soldier’s proposed marriage to his girlfriend on the Dallas Cowboy’s football field (which was accepted joyously by his now, fiancée).   I spent time with my wife in Austin, Texas. 

The diversity and social life in Austin surprised me.  From gourmet food trucks to paddle boarding on the river in the heart of the city, we spent every available moment exploring.  Our last night in Austin, we rented a kayak just before sunset, and paddled to the bridge known for its bat habitat.  As the sun disappeared behind the horizon, thousands of bats dropped from the unique architecture of the bridge and created a cloud of frenzied flying bats! It was amazing!

The four day pass was well spent.  Honestly, I would have been satisfied doing nothing as long as I was in the company of my best friend and wife.  Any time spent in her company is a treasured gift.  However, there was this special moment we shared on our drive back to Fort Hood to drop me off before my pass was up.  No, it’s not some romantic candle lit moment.  It wasn’t about us at all.

Texas, like all of the U.S is full of small towns across the expanse of the land.  Most drive straight through them without a glance left or right.  The only acknowledgement most of these small cells of population get is from the one stop light along the old highways that halt the traffic for brief moments in their journeys to destinations more notable than them.

Florence, Texas is one of those stop lights.  I probably wouldn’t have noted the town’s name had it not been for flourish of color displayed by the military service flags surrounding a small memorial.  I pulled our rental car into a small dirt lot alongside the memorial.

“What’s up, sweetie?” Catie asked as I unbuckled my seat belt.  She gazed around our surroundings and decided to join me outside the car.

“Look,” I instructed and made my way to read the lettering engraved in a small circle of walls.  Names, ranks, and dates of the events that they had died in filled every morsel of space on the memorial.  From the Revolutionary War to the current war in Afghanistan, the citizens of Florence served and made the ultimate sacrifice for our Nation.  I was humbled to say the least. 

Catie traced the outline of the names with her fingers, acknowledging the existence of someone she had never known, and the service they fulfilled.  The flag of every service branch blew in the wind, accenting the sound of their motion in the silence only broken by passing traffic along the lone highway.  We were both lost in our own thoughts.

These men and women who fought and died for our Country will never know fame.  They didn’t earn a medal of honor.  Their pictures are not publicized on facebook. Their stories are lost on strangers like myself.  I can only imagine the heart break their families experienced when they were notified of their death.  And, now, with the passage of so much time… the people that once knew them are reminded of their lives once lived by the simple carving of their name on a stone wall that will outlive us all.

Catie snapped a picture of me standing underneath the Marine Corps flag.  Comical to say the least since I know wear the service dress uniform of the U.S Army and am deploying for a second time with my Soldier family.  However, my dedication and service is rooted in the training I received from the Corps.  I will always give them credit for ingraining in me the gratitude and respect I have for any person who served our Country.  I placed my hand on the wall of names and said a silent prayer.

“Thank you for your service.  Thank you for your sacrifice.  If not for you, who knows where our Country would be.  I ask the Lord be with your families and with you.  I pray that I meet the standard you have made by your example.  It is with the highest honor that I serve this country that you laid your life down for.  May you have peace, brother and sisters, thank you for being you.”

Catie took my hand as we walked back to our car.  We got back on the road and continued towards Fort Hood.  Catie dropped me off at my barracks, and we said our tearful goodbyes.  The memorial was a powerful reminder of the danger my Company was about to take on.  She didn’t want my name on a wall, nor do I.  The fear is always present.  No one goes to war without acknowledging the risk.  Those names didn’t represent the fear… they signified why we fight, why we continue to volunteer for our Country. 

We don’t do it in pursuit of medals or fame.  We don’t do it for the pay or benefits.  We do it because it is in our hearts, in our soul.  It is who we are; a soldier, a Marine, an airman, a sailor.  But in those titles, we are also just citizens of a Country that we believe in so much that we are willing to defend, protect, and give our last breath.  To our families and friends, we miss you dearly.  To our NATO family, service members in uniform from all over the world, thank you for your service.  To the names of countless people who have come before us in this uniform… thank you for being our examples, our heroes of what is expected of us.  May we serve with honor and make you proud.

The NCO

“SGT… Train me.”

I’ve scanned past blogs of my previous deployment, and find myself in a similar environment.  The land is vast, dry, and hot.  It is not Iraq.  I am not 26 years of age, and this is not my first time in uniform, representing my country abroad.  The current date is a year and some change in to the future.  I am now 28 years young, with stripes of a non-commissioned officer pinned upon my chest.  My responsibilities are numerous, very similar to the role I played for the Cavalry unit in OIF; however, as an NCO, the weight of caution and care for my fellow soldiers is stronger and more important that the Specialist it only worried about the mission.

 

The change in perspective from a soldier to an NCO does not happen over night.  As battle buddies, there is a special bond of protection born in the trying times of battle and war.  It is part American, part soldier, part humanity to aid one another in ensuring the survival through the worse and assurance that we will all go back to our homes in one piece, and with beating hearts.  As an NCO, it is more than a bond felt; it is a duty charged to your rank.

 

As the United States Army NCO creed states, “No one is more professional than I. I am a Noncommissioned Officer, a leader of soldiers. As a Noncommissioned Officer, I realize that I am a member of a time honored corps, which is known as “The Backbone of the Army”. I am proud of the Corps of Noncommissioned Officers and will at all times conduct myself so as to bring credit upon the Corps, the Military Service and my country regardless of the situation in which I find myself. I will not use my grade or position to attain pleasure, profit, or personal safety.”  Officers plan, NCOs execute.  My every step, word, and deed brings credit to the Corps of NCOs.  I support their leadership tactics as they support mine.

 

“Competence is my watchword. My two basic responsibilities will always be uppermost in my mind—accomplishment of my mission and the welfare of my soldiers. I will strive to remain technically and tactically proficient. I am aware of my role as a Noncommissioned Officer. I will fulfill my responsibilities inherent in that role. All soldiers are entitled to outstanding leadership; I will provide that leadership. I know my soldiers and I will always place their needs above my own. I will communicate consistently with my soldiers and never leave them uninformed. I will be fair and impartial when recommending both rewards and punishment.”  The mission is always at the forefront of my thoughts, but in order to fulfill that mission, the soldier must perform his/her occupational assignment.  The soldier is the army.  Without the soldier, there is no mission or defense.

 

“Officers of my unit will have maximum time to accomplish their duties; they will not have to accomplish mine. I will earn their respect and confidence as well as that of my soldiers. I will be loyal to those with whom I serve; seniors, peers, and subordinates alike. I will exercise initiative by taking appropriate action in the absence of orders. I will not compromise my integrity, nor my moral courage. I will not forget, nor will I allow my comrades to forget that we are professionals, Noncommissioned Officers, leaders!”

 

Sometimes, what has already been written sums up better what I could ever describe of it.  Words are just words if there is no one who believes in them.  Further more, it goes past a belief; it is who we are.  This creed was not created as an example of what an NCO is.  This creed was written in description of the past generations who wore the rank, supplied the leadership, and performed the duties required for our Country to continue forging its path in history.  The NCO creed is branded in my brain, to my heart as what and who I must be.  I pray that I am strong enough and deserving of this title for the sake of my soldiers, in credit to those who have earned it, and in keeping with the highest expectation of the United States of America.

The Footlocker

Soldier on.

Why is it so difficult to feel? Why do we find it so incapacitating to allow ourselves the luxury of sifting through the tumultuous endeavors that bloom, wither, and die for moments at a time? It is true, we would not know the good if it were not for the bad, but could sadness be fleeting like a mid-summer shower and joy ensconce the dominance of our duration? It is not so in most scenarios.

Bitter remembrance settles over hearts like a winter blizzard, coating the land of time, rendering it unrecognizable. Loss, heartache, worse yet to break, failure and disappointment heal with the passage of tick-tocks on a clock, calendar months fading away. The snail pace climb back to civility, a semblance of neutrality in the war between highs and lows claims victimized time lost. Why is it so difficult?

Why do so many prolong the darkened winter of hearts by numbing themselves cold? Avoid the pain, forget the cause, live in the darkness, allow the chill to refrigerate and continue… the healing never begins when its pursuit is not pursued.  Yes, I have been guilty of such a stalling tactic. My bulky green army footlocker sat in my living room for months, locked and sealed taunting me with its presence. Every day, I passed it, ignored it, and continued trying to forget it was there. I knew I needed to unpack it, sort through the items and deal with memories, but I didn’t… couldn’t, I wasn’t ready. As long as that footlocker stayed locked, so did the thoughts and the pictures that were kept at bay in my mind.  But I was strapped to the top of that treasure chest of unwanted memories, anchored to a time I couldn’t progress past.

Finally… one usually forgettable night, I popped the lock and slowly sifted through the gear and random trinkets of the deployment.  Combat gloves, goggles, a bean-stuffed cat given to me by a soldier who didn’t make it back, notes I took, books I read, letters I received, pictures I had taped up in my living quarters… everything was accounted for.  The memories slammed into me like a tsunami unending. When I packed the storage box, I also inserted all the emotions I was not allowed to feel, didn’t have time to feel.  No matter the circumstance, the weather, or the life altering events, missions had to be completed, tasks had to be done, and expectations met. If I was scared, I couldn’t hide, I had to stride forward through the fear. If I was sick, I couldn’t call in for a day off and rest. I took the meds, reported in, and continued the list of duties.  Shots fired, bombs exploded, lives were taken, trucks rolled in, commodities rolled out, and the train kept moving.

The emotions climbed out of the green sand littered box and sat on my chest, preventing me from breathing. The fear kicked me in my stomach, loneliness cuffed my hands. Sand stung my eyes, the sun burned my skin, I could smell the odor of smoke, trash, and stagnant polluted water. God, it hurt. I blinked my eyes, clearing my vision, and realized the footlocker was finally empty. Nothing was left. I was alive. My pit-bull mixed puppy licked my face and growled in a familiar tone of endearment, so I tossed my arm around her and hugged her close as if she had pulled me out from the deserts of Iraq. I put my gear away, stored all the other items, and closed the foot locker, not needing to lock it any longer. The mission was complete, my boots sat untied in my closet, and I looked out the window to the neighborhood on American soil.

There is nothing to be scared of. Pain, memories, yes it all hurts, but until you allow yourself to feel it, you will never move beyond it. The sooner you battle what is not of the physical, the quicker you will find your way to a day where your smile is genuine, and your laughter contagious. I pray for more good the bad every day, and that is a battle worth waging time and time again.

Snap Shot

I love taking pictures. I never really thought about becoming a photographer, it wasn’t on my list of things I pretended to be when I was a little kid.  Over the years, and through the evolution of digital compact cameras that have come to know the inside of my pant pockets, I have enjoyed capturing the many moments that make up our lives.  From weddings to an insignificant night on the couch channel surfing, my camera has witnessed all.

While in Iraq, I was a habitual shooter.  No, I wasn’t shooting my M4 rifle, I was shooting my lenses at anything and everything randomly through the days and nights that made up the entirety of the deployment.  I don’t like doing posed shots either, so I had to become a ninja, secretly snapping pictures of people when they least expected it, or when they knew nothing of it at all.   Once the pictures were made view-able to friends and family, I received several compliments on my skill and was very grateful for such accolades, however I never felt worthy of it.

You see, I never planned the shot.  I didn’t use a fancy camera.  I didn’t take into account the lighting, distance, shadows, or anything that a real photographer would do.  I was just there, pushed a button, and caught a fleeting moment that would normally go unnoticed by the world if not for a computer generated image on a memory card.  The only intent I had in taking the shot was hoping that somewhere in the line of history, these faces and countless instances that are abridged within a dash mark that annotates a period of war would be acknowledged.  Operation New Dawn: Iraq 2010-2011.

As I went about my daily chores and musings, I filled up a cup of coffee in my kitchen and froze as I stared at a picture of my wife and I caught in a kiss at a bar when we were just dating.  The frame was a wedding present that had the words, “Love.  There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved,” scrolled across the top.  On the bottom of the frame was the well known scripture, “Love is patient, love is kind, and is not jealous; love does not brag and is never arrogant.”  That picture has sat on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker since we moved into this home, and I never really appreciated it.

With that thought in my mind, I picked up my full cup of coffee and strolled around my living room, looking at all the pictures hanging on the walls, and wondering what a stranger would surmise from each.    A story was behind every one, and as I study each one it was as if the memory came alive in my eye and I was there.  Pictures from our travels to Tahiti, Catie, my wife being the first and only friend and significant other I had ever taken to my birth place and home.  Images of friends and family from holidays and weekends together.

On top of our red brick mantle, where the Christmas stockings are now hanging from and an assortment of nick knacks and more pictures resided my U.S flag encased in a cherry wood glass holder given to me by the state of Virginia in gratitude for my service overseas.  Would a stranger feel the warmth of love, pride in the choices we have made throughout our lifetimes, and understand a morsel of who we are?  I’d like to think so.  I’d like to think that each picture I take has a conversation with anyone who looks at them; that the voices of time’s past still have a heart beat and a hint of a giggle at the memories that are locked… all in that single moment that I clicked a button on a camera.

It’s Nothing.

It’s nothing.

It’s what some do.  Convince the self it means nothing.  When I realize it means something, I break my own heart, assured that cuffing all remarks will silence the stuffing that turned into more than… nothing.

I know where it all fits, the shattered and proverbial parts.  I can fix it, after I filet it, spice it with salted disappointment, and a touch of lament.  Toss it to the sharks starving in the desolation of the dark, where I keep all the bleeding infected scars.

It’s easier that way, to end it from the start.  I know my own worth, I learned it from the first how cruel the world is, and how much it can hurt.

If I admitted I cared, that would beg the question… to you, what am I in this fickle and tawdry session?  A silly curse?  A random and singular thirst?  Never to be spoken of, a mislaid thought amongst the forgotten moments sought?

I can’t ask, won’t give the power of frenetic admission with flooding conversations of omission.  It ends always at a lost, this is the cost for all my crimes, the beating of a heart less inclined to allow any other a chance to climb about my mind.

I’ll smile and be polite, always dapper and commonly a delight.  But let it be simple, to end this internal fight… I partake in the morsel, for my value is not to be tested, so give us a toast, and don’t bother with the rest!  Like I told you, “It’s nothing!  Just a lil something made of silent words and desire buried under a thousand feet of dirt.”

An Art Form

Art walking your way.

Art spans the length of worldly continuation, before and after man-kind.  However, would art be if there was never an eye to recognize it?  Irrelevant would be the majestic clouds that war over hemispheres.  Inconsequential would be the sunsets that color the immense expanse of ceaseless space with shades only visible at that moment in man-made chronological order.  Have you been moved by a painting, intrigued by the science of the skill, or humbled by the emotion at its conception?  In addition to the visual value, were you emboldened by its unique existence?

Skip a rock across stilled water, and ripples upset the calmness.  It’s an involuntary reaction to a voluntary action.  This is much like the recognition to artful interpretation of the fabric in which our lives are materialized in.  To define the word, art: the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing (dictionary.com).  It is the basic, streamline explanation for a rather vast subject matter.  Not only is it of the visual, but physical, spatial, and nuptial fusing of all.

To stray further from the definitive sense of the word, I believe that aside from the abstract, cubism, and varied other variants, it can also be found in a human form.  This form is inclusive from one specific trait such as flecks of gold in amber green eyes to the entirety; pass the depth of one’s skin.  The form in motion is a supplementary attribute in the equation, whether in a swagger or in rhythmic overtures of dance.  The form in action where the deeds are voluminous would be fitting of fine art commendation as well.  In that fashion, Mother Teresa or Saint Joan d’Arc would be such champions.

I am besotted in reverie, not accustomed to the succession of far more than ordinary admiration for a beating heart art form.  I dawdle in between the walls of my mind, stuck in a creative pit of self-inflicted tribulation with my wits loitering on such subject matters.  I am guilty of scattered thoughts through out this note and do apologize.  But, at times a form that belies proper etiquette speaks louder than the words embedded on the paper.  This may or may not apply, however I proffer not one brush stroke was ever out-of-place within a Monet.  With that in mind, continue your day and spot art as it walks your way!

Spoken Word: Vengeance

This video is a spoken word piece created by a friend of mine who wanted her voice to be heard and her words to be felt.  It is the first short film done by Battle Axe Production, LLC, a company started by myself and battle buddy, K. Hicks.  The project is in support of the Norfolk S.L.U.T walk event taking place April 28th, 2012.  Self-confidence Lovers United Together to Walk is the organization’s title.  Further information is available at: www.facebook.com/slutwalknorfolk, www.swnorfolk.com, and www.facebook.com/laydilyrik for Jamie, the creator of this piece.  Thank you for your support! 

This is the link to the video:  http://youtu.be/PgBBtyyrZ2M

Please watch it, and pass on the strength and courage it takes to have done this.  BattleAxe was proud and honored to have been able to help Jamie and the organization out with this project.

Respectfully,

A.Johanson