the dance of the bumblebee

The past few days have offered plenty of time to look around and consider the difference between perception and reality. Just today a fellow pilot said in an email, 'whether we like it or not, perception is reality'. I completely disagree. Of all, perception has the least to do with reality. Truth has many shades and perception is the dark corner where the shadows draw long and wreaks havoc on understanding.

This is an inadequate lead in to the subject of today's email. I want to describe for you, through my limited perception, the Army. More specifically, the Army camp where I now reside. I remember a few years back watching Gods and Generals. The austere General Stonewall Jackson bravely leading doughy eyed troop through the hills and valleys for the glory and protection of proud Virginia. I distinctly remember the neat rows of white pup tents, lined stake to stake, forming the orderly rank and file. A broad avenue of sorts cut a swab between the to sides of the camp leading directly to the General's tent. Inside a single, massive table stood supporting an intimidating map, surrounded by serious faced officers who more resembled their corsairs chomping at the bits to lead the vanguard through the very guts of the damn Yankees.

Its unfortunate Hollywood plays such a significant role in how we imagine things outside the realm of our personal experience. Reality is nearly always less organized and assuredly grittier. The people are more real and considerably more distracted. In reality, people have much more going on in their life. In Hollywood, they focus only on the task at hand. We are complicated beings and even war does little to pull our minds out of our own thoughts. Its this tend toward the complexity that makes it all but impossible for camps to look like the rows of white tents we love in the movies.

As I walked around the camp this week I attempted to come up with an appropriate analogy to convey the feeling this place exudes. My first shot was to compare it to a beehive void of the dance of the bumblebees. After a short evaluation I realized bees dance to communicate orders. There is a clean feeling to the chaos and a general sense of purpose. Each bee realizes its own specific role and lives for only its execution. The chaos is production and the dance is tells of its glory.

Not Camp Buering.

My second attempt lent to a thought I found more apropo: an elementary school play ground at recess. Balls are flying; games of tag are formed and as quickly forgotten. Rules are created throughout and redrafted in the same breath by the biggest and quickest. Some loiter. Others simply run. A gaggle throw rocks at the same group trying to collect the prettiest stone. Zero coordination. No production. Yet not chaos. It's a dance of sorts as well. Those who live it day to day see the 'order'. Those adept at monitoring can quickly glance and see the flow where running willy-nilly leads to the monkey bars, to the swing, to the collecting of secada shells and ultimately exhaustion.

This is an Army encampment in a nutshell. I feel rather certain those in the 'life' see this as orderly and as close to the picture of the General and his tents. Upon a Navy ship everyone has purpose. The engineer's job is no more or less important than the machinist. It is a beehive; clean and efficient. Perpetual motion.

This being my realm of experience, poking my head into the playground with kids I don't know, playing games whose rules I don't know, is daunting. The level of loitering is staggering. I suppose these ladies and gentlemen's only reason for being is to fling and consequently catch as much lead as possible in as short a period as human depravity allows.

They are everywhere. The air is filled with the sound of grunts and 'hooa's' from sunup to sundown. To your left they are standing in small clusters smoking, always smoking. Off to the right there are three merely holding up the wall. To the front, a group complaining about their sergeant, behind, two sergeants complaining about their specialists.

Spectacular. I don't know the rules. I don't speak the language. Yet spectacular none the less.

Perhaps the winding 'roads' carving through the smattering of shades, concrete obstructions and trailers make since to these guys. But I don't understand the people either. The Army seems to be made up of two ages with no median population. Two-thirds are barely old enough to shave; the other third are nearly old. I see equal amounts of gray hair and stubble. What happened to those in the middle? Where is the grizzled 33-year-old sergeant we see in the movies?

Ah, that's right…perception.

Be good.