...This anxious Delay...

09 APRIL 2010

There’s a Lego Man head lamp illuminating my workspace, which is covered in a dozen samplings of Mark Twain, by and by, his complete collection. These, the reading light and literature, were recently received in care packages from home, namely from my father, mother and oldest brother. The word passing down the family tree suspects I will have more clutter added at each mail call. My family, most often, has been found guilty of loving me too much. To this I have no complaints. And by this I have implied there are complaints to be made, which is true, there are.

The chief complaint of the day is that I’m sitting in my workspace with Lego Men and Twain novels and the daydream of my loving family. Our last mission had us home, safe and sound, over a week ago. There is only so much entertainment found at Camp Buerhing; running laps and drinking Starbucks and reading of Huck’s adventures can only sooth so many hours of the day. My team is ready for another mission—bored and ready. There is the want for excitement and scenery and to get off the bench and make a play.

The coming attractions have become more and more interesting, where zombie dinosaurs, a relative fright already, have given way to dinosaur zombies with lasers attached to their freaking heads! Squirm and shift and sweat in my truck I may, but that sounds like a damn good flick. So let me be the child watching on with both hands over his face, insisting to have just little enough spread through two fingers to watch on. Just get me off this base.

I go on as if we haven’t been allocated for another mission, which we have. Truth be told, it will be our farthest and most ‘interesting’ mission yet. So, more accurately told, my complaint is the anxious delay spent in down time that will inevitably fall between each trip out of the gate; the time spent at hurry up and wait. A little of this is good for the soul; wash some clothes and play some volleyball. Too much makes you feel like a kid two days before Christmas, when the tree downstairs is already surrounded by gifts and ready to surrender to the prying interest of Santa’s ‘Good Boy’ list.

- The Exodus