My Socks Still Aren't Folded

T minus June 6: 19 Days
The impending pressure of the fast approaching Report leaves an indention five feet deep on my shoulders, like a cheap Wal-mart bra with slack support.  I can't find the motivation to complete any of the promised projects before I leave Columbia in two weeks, the days sliding by with little productivity.  Empty frames litter the corners of my room, waiting to be filled and propped up on the walls of Pinnacle Clinic for display and sale; the desktop of Sparky, my faithful mac, is packed with unorganized clips of photos to inspire a t-shirt/poster design for the Raptor Ride this fall; a list of possible gifts for my sister's 25th birthday lies scrawled with dejected notes on my nightstand; the fridge and cabinets are packed with my food, my closets and drawers spilling over with items waiting to be moved to the empty condo on I-20; my phone still dead, my ipod still missing, and my socks still aren't folded.
      Instead, I quickly shower, dress, scramble an egg, and follow the intense pull to West Columbia, where I spend the majority of my hours with the very people who were the inspiration for my career path.  Sadly, two of them are missing, not to return until less than a week before my departure, which should be push enough to complete the checklist of tasks chicken-scratched onto my whiteboard, but instead I stare at the whiteboard thinking of how I need to buy some spackle to fill the holes in the walls of what was home to me for the past two years.  Another to add to the growing weed of a to-do list.
      I am hiding, cuddled under a blanket of denial in Mama G's recliner, literally dreading every return to my Cayce apartment, piled high with untouched goals - and reality.  My nights at Lucky's Lounge are an escape from that scary growing-up thing I have to do very soon, a haven where I close my eyes and pretend the monster of change isn't there.  But on my return home this morning after an extended nap trying to ignore the yellow demon Bailey's insistent whines, an e-mail from my CO at Ft Knox waited patiently, ticking away, filed under a question from my dad about printer cartridges I don't have the answer to.  The note included a list of things to complete before report on June 6, followed by a quick procedure during our first couple days, and directions from the gate to our office at The Leader on base.  See you in three weeks or less. Tick tick tick.

Na-na-na No Roomies
     The excitement for the adventures waiting for me at Ft Knox is still there, wedged betwixt a rock and a hard place.  I can't wait to begin my career, to learn more and more about military photography, to travel, meet interesting people and see beautiful places, to tell the stories of service members who have no voice, and help civilians to understand the sacrifices of each individual swimming in the sea of camo making up our armed forces, all through the never-lying shutter of my Nikon.  But as Columbia's select job prospects creep out from the undergrowth, mouths wide with the snaggle-tooth grin of a mediocre salary and the promise of a gray cubicle, the inconvenient truth of my own sacrifice is climbing into the light - Columbia may not be the place that I can pursue the career I so desperately seek.  There is a very significant chance I will have to leave Columbia, vacate the Palmetto State, leaving behind the friends and family who have supported me the whole path thus far.  It's all a part of growing up, yes.  But it's still scary as hell.  I'm venturing forth, confident in my eye for perspective, my instinct for truth, my passion for loyalty and patriotism, and I'm doing it alone.  The last sentence of my CO's e-mail rings in my mind - "Due to the independent nature of the inn on base, you will room alone."  No roomie.  Advantageous according to space and bathroom time, and so very ironic for the first step of what I hope to be a blooming career.

PT - PhotoTherapy/ PhotoTraining
On another note, I've decided to post pictures with every blog, possibly related, possibly just something I took recently that I'm puffing in pride over.  My goal is to always post something of mine, though I'm sure I'll find a shot or two of my colleagues or an inspiring photographer elsewhere I'd like to share.
 

The flag pinned to the wall of Lucky's Lounge.  I took it in a PhotoTherapy session with the new 35mm fixed lens my parents gave me for graduation.

  

Flexing the Blogging Bicep

Cortright Creations Clads Camo... or Cams Camo...?
Mentally hyping my sleep-deprived gray cells up for the eight millionth presentation of the month, I was groggily dragging myself out to Aveera, faithful Corolla - the color of sacrifice... or cherry jelly beans.  The Thursday noon sun beaming down could have been the excuse for my wandering mind, jumping track on a logical development as a regular habit these days.  But a more realistic excuse would be the weight of sixteen years of school coming to a slow, torturous end.  So they say the culmination is a piece of paper, stamped with the curly gothic prints of a job well done, my claim to fame that I'm all edumicated up to conquer the world.  I haven't seen it yet, but hopefully the state's tax dollars have been well spent on what is realistically flattened tree pulp representing thousands of buckaroos missing from my parent's savings accounts, as well as thousands upon thousands of sleepless projects, papers, tests, and self-righteous instructors on my part.  No worries, I'm sure I'm the only university graduate who is slightly bitter about the transaction of higher education.  Though I must say that from the 133 hours banked, I did have a few classes that stubbornly put my nose to the grindstone prepping me for this theoretical "Real World" I'll be working in from here on out.

Mugshot at Ft Jackson Weapons Training Field, taken by my PAO escort Veran Hill.

      One such class would be J463E - Media & the Military, taught by the one and only Miron Varouhakis, military reporter and visiting professor at USC.  The course was at fault for at least 45% of my senior semester stress, and paid off 100%.  Focused on teaching journalism students how to interact, understand, and report on military affairs, Varouhakis partnered up with the South Carolina National Guard to instill knowledge - and contacts - from the source of military public affairs.  The two switched off teaching classes, varying from how to interview Prisoners of War to understanding the demands of deployment, along with additionally providing a military mentor for students to pursue their six required projects to complete the course.  Like every other 22-year-old American, I have at least a half-dozen close friends enlisted with some form of armed forces or another, and had diligently followed the reports and blogs of both uniformed and civilian embeds alike during their deployments to Afghanistan last year.  The process peaked my interest in the affairs of Military Media, motivating  enrollment in the USC course last semester.  Well, enrollment might be an understatement. I threw myself into it. I was obsessed.  Practically daily correspondence with my mentor gained me access to observe (and photograph) a myriad of events featuring my beloved armed forces, including perching on the back seats of a BlackHawk, opposite the South Carolina Adjuctant General, during Gunnery Training.  I ran through ditches and forestry after a platoon of Army Basic Combat Training Soldiers on a team-building obstacles exercise, crouched on the yellow footprints of Marine Depot Parris Island, listened to the raspy stories of USMC Drill Instructors, and had the front-row opportunity to view the reunion of BCT graduates with their families.  I woke at 2am, researched until O-dark-thirty, and snapped the shutter til eye was bruised.
     I was hooked.  Military photography gave me the front-and-center opportunity to make a difference to these camo-clad heroes, to contribute some kind of understanding to their cause, and communicate to the civilian world the hardships of being in the military.  Not to mention I wouldn't have to drool behind a computer all day.
     Which is why my phone buzzing away, scaring the crap out of me in my half-conscious run-through of my final presentation for J463C - Superbowl Advertising, became my first big career move.  Sergeant Forrest Berkshire didn't skip a beat as I hesitated on my "Hello?"  We'd been playing phone tag for over a week at that point, and I was sure the Fort Knox ROTC Public Affairs Officer was just calling to decline my application for the undergraduate summer internship working for The Leader, their base newspaper.  False.  He offered me the high-competition position, not generally accepting of post-grads, and after an undisclosed period of hyperventilating, I accepted.

Bloggity Blog Blog
     And this, oh patient readers, is how I come to write this blog.  I have had vain efforts in the past of pursuing a blog, but had no purpose - and no readers.  Now that I am committed to spending two months adventuring my way through the woods of Ft Knox, clamoring after the United States future Army Officers through mud, dirt, logs, grit, and attitude, perhaps I might have a curious friend or two.  Plus I know my dad will read it.  So there's one guaranteed reader.  No promises though.  I also won't venture to say that I'll write every day.  To be quite honest, I'm sure I'll have better things to do with my time... though being aware of the internship's salary, I probably won't be able to afford pursuing them. I will, however, grant myself a commitment to at least one or two posts a week.  Maybe.
     Perhaps I might need some motivating to stick to that contract.  So, avid reader Padre, hold me to that.