So, I've got this real problem in my brain-head. See, I've been told I'm a decent photographer, and I really enjoy doing it. The problem is self-esteem and self-hatred when it comes to my 'art' (work, photos, whatever you want to call it.). I have this possibly irrational fear that the feedback I've been getting is from the eyes of those who don't really know what they are talking about. I wonder what people who have the cash and experience to back up what they say would do if they saw my work at a gallery, or on a blog, or in a newspaper.
If I was one of those lucky few that get to look at and purchase art for a living, I wouldn't even give my work a second glance.
Whatever the reason for this, call it irrationality, common artist anxiety, what have you - because of this, I've been dragging my feet when it comes to creating new work, or even perusing my previous work. I try to blame other things, like a lack of the perfect lens, or taking care of my 9-month-old, or the weather, but I have this nagging suspicion that I'm no good at this stuff, and the career and life choices and the investments I've made have all been made in vain.
How many other photographers in this city are there that are trying so hard to do the exact thing I'm trying to do? It's hard to tell, but what work I've looked at intimidates me.
I feel I'm at a crossroads, there the distance between insanity and genius is measured only in success. Should I go all in on this photography/journalism thing, and hope that what I do out there can put food in my cupboards? Or should I go for the sure thing, and full-time it at some dead-end where I won't go anywhere, but at least I'm securing a future for my family. Before my daughter came into the world, it would've been easy to take the risks. 
Now, I'm not so sure.
Here's what seems to be the happy medium in this situation: Keep the photo/writing thing going, but try much harder to put the work out there. Get some photos that are known to please (there's gotta be some out there), and print the fuckers. Then, figure out some way to put them in a studio where someone who knows something will see them. Also, keep blogging. Keep putting the work out there.
Meanwhile, consider what IS sure in the money-making department, and try harder at those things. That way, the best of both worlds can be achieved.


So, I basically I'll have to develop a caffeine habit, and get up earlier. I can do that.

Annnnnd... GO!

So, it's been a long time since I've written anything on this 'ol blog of mine. It wouldn't be because nothing exciting has happened over the past year or so, it's just that I haven't felt that I had anything worth saying. I guess it's time for me to begin sharpening my writing skills again, and give the briefest of overviews of what's going on in my life right now.
To make a long story short, I'm living in Burlington, Vermont, I got married, and I have a 2-month old daughter. Yep. That's about it. I'm in School at Burlington College for photography and journalism, and I'm trying to figure out this whole baby-bills-bachelor's-being married thing.

So here's the deal - because my Tumblr is more up my alley in terms of photographic expression, I will use this blog as a place to give a more in-depth view of what's going on in the mind. I don't plan on using this as a place of frequency, because I want to focus my energy on the photo thing. If, for some reason, there is an interest in my writing as well as my photos, I'll be required to bend to the will of the Internet.

If you want to read something super personal, check out the blog I've created for my daughter, Katherine. My plan is to write a little bit each year about how she has been doing in life, and on her 18th birthday, I'll show it to her.

Founding Le Company Du Simplicity

Dripping slowly towards oblivion, we ride. Seemingly obnoxious memories flow through my fingers faster than i can put them on paper. trees of knowledge sprout up like wingless angels coming back to life. Entirely different and new things arrange themselves in orderless chaos, making it appear that everything and nothing is known.
To many times we give up on the ease that is the existence of emotion.
Who knew that I could scream so silently?
30 days. 30 days. 30 days. 30 days. 30 days.
too long, yet not long enough.
She will always be there, like a splinter, driving me insane.
Algebra.
Commotion.
The bed rocks. I feel like I'm drowning.
The star pattern on her back I will never see. The blue ice i will never drink again. Cuts that look like boiling water, so the man doesn't worry about your tendencies. Who knew you would make a u-turn? Are you SURE this is the road you want to go on?
Better be light and fluffy frosting.
Belonging to a country yet not.
YOUR MOVE, HOLY MAN.


...... What the fuck was that all about?

College Application Essay

Please let me know what you think.

Discuss some issue of personal, local, national, or international concern and its importance to you.

I was in eighth grade when the Twin Towers fell. I was young, and therefore unable to properly digest and analyze the life-changing occasion that I had experienced. The only real memory I have of that day was when I came home from school, and joined my family around the living-room television. Tuned to ABC, I saw Peter Jennings say a sentence that forever will stay with me: “The Defense Department is working to find the SOBs that did this.”

When I was sitting on that couch, watching the replays over and over, I didn’t really understand what Peter meant. And I don’t think I really did until recently, when I went ‘outside the wire’ for the first time, here in Afghanistan. I saw, with my own eyes, what the media outlets and the military never could show me. Sure, I’ve seen the poor villagers on the news. I knew that Afghanistan was impoverished. But to have young children pulling on your arm, and with the widest eyes, beg for water because the Taliban sealed their village’s well for cooperating with America, I began to understand what Peter meant.

I joined the Army specifically to go to Afghanistan. I wanted adventure. I wanted experience. I wanted to grow up. I wanted to know what was really going on. When I got here, I discovered that all I really wanted to do was help.

I am a combat photojournalist for the Vermont Army National Guard. My primary job is to go on missions with various units doing various roles and tell their story. One day, I might be on a Blackhawk helicopter, delivering .50 caliber machine guns to a base in the middle of the mountains. The next day, I might be with an Agricultural Development Team, teaching Afghans how to grow soybeans instead of poppies. You know what they say: “If you love your job, you never spend a day of your life working.”

It’s true, I love my job, but I doubt myself. Is what I’m doing giving positive change to the situation in these villages? Will my pictures touch the heart of someone enough to give relief to these children who only want water and shoes? I guess I’m not seeing the big picture. Big Army is a huge machine, and it takes a long time for this machine to start moving. I’m sure wells will be dug, and other humanitarian aid will be given. Maybe Afghanistan will become a stable country.

I truly believe in the work we are trying to do here. The unpopularity of this war is hindering our progress. There’s constant talk of leaving this country in the hands of the Afghans. “Bring the boys home,” they say. I totally understand where these people are coming from. What mother wants her son to risk his life to stabilize a country a world away?

For someone who sees these kids from a world away, let me say this; if we are not going to help these people, who will? I’m not one for revenge. Yes, what happened on September 11 is a horrific and heinous act. But is it man’s job to exact justice? Or is it man’s job to lend a hand and actually give these villagers hope? I consider our occupation in Afghanistan a humanitarian mission, and I think it should be looked at and treated as such. Darfur received so much coverage and exposure for the crimes against humanity being committed there. The same type of thing is happening in Afghanistan. We are already here. We need to fix these problems, even if they are not our problems. They are problems of children, and that fact should have no political agenda.

Give Us Free

One of the most significant things I did during my time at home while I was on leave was get my first tattoo. Now, many have asked what the tattoo is, and then when told about it, what it signifies. I figured I'd write a little about my choice, and what it means to me.
If you went to high school during the past 10 years, I'm sure you've seen the movie Amistad during one of your history classes. No? Well, let me explain the story to you. Well, let me let Wikipedia help me explain it to you:
On July 2, 1839, Sengbe Pieh (later known in the United States as Joseph Cinqué) led 56 fellow Africans (52 adults and 4 children), the captives being transported aboard La Amistad from Havana, in a revolt against their captors. In the main hold below decks, the captives found a rusty file. The captives freed themselves, and they quickly ascended the stairs to deck. Armed with machete-like cane knives, they were successful in gaining control of the ship and demanded to be returned home. The ship's navigator, Don Pedro Montez, deceived them about which direction their course was on and sailed the ship north along the North American coast to the eastern tip of Long Island, New York. The United States Revenue Cutter Service discovered the schooner and took it and its occupants into custody. They took the Africans to Connecticut to be sold as slaves. A widely publicized court case ensued in New Haven, Connecticut, about the ship and the legal status of the African captives, which became a cause célèbre among abolitionists in the United States. At the time, the transport of slaves from Africa to the Americas was illegal, so the ship owners fraudulently described the Africans as having been born in Cuba. The court had to decide if the Africans were to be considered salvage and the property of naval officers who had taken custody of the ship, whether they were the property of the Cuban buyers or of Spain as Queen Isabella II of Spain claimed, or if the circumstances of their capture and transportation meant they were free. On appeal, The Amistad case reached the US Supreme Court, which in 1841 ruled in that the Africans had been illegally transported and held as slaves, and ordered them freed. The Amistad survivors returned to Africa in 1842.
History lesson over. The reason I remember this event in history is because Steven Spielberg directed a film that depicts it. During the court proceedings, tension in the courtroom rises, ultimately prompting Cinqué (the leader of the slaves) to leap from his seat and cry "Give us free" over and over, a heartfelt plea using the English he has learned.

From Drop Box

He just wanted to go home.
Now, I'm not a huge fan of the whole Amistad thing. I just think that it is interesting to consider America the Land of The Free, when our freedom was built on the shoulders of slaves. 'Give Us Free' is my way of saying I recognize this fact, and I will always remember the sacrifices that people all around the world give just so they can have a taste of something we as Americans take for granted. In Afghanistan, I see so many people live happy with so little. So much hardship and pain grips this country.

'Give Us Free' also speaks to the mental chains that weigh our spirits and our souls down. The truth is, we are not free. We are slaves to design and commercialism. We don't understand the language of the people running our lives enough to let them know that we've had enough. So, those that can speak up and yell as loud as they can and act and defend themselves with what they have.
Am I making sense? Cinqué didn't have to say 'Give Us Free' in real life to have what is over my heart mean any less. I just want to show the fact that I desire freedom for everyone, especially those who don't know how to ask for it.

Get those jazz hands snapping!

Here’s a story:

In late October of last year, before this whole deployment thing, I was on an adventure to the town of Castine, Maine to meet up with an old friend, Heidi. I was traveling in my 1974 VW Westy on Route 2 for most of the way. At around 8pm, I encountered the last town in New Hampshire, a small town called (I believe) Gorham. It was there that the first part of this epic tale began. It was a simple act of purchasing a Red Bull from the store. I was confident of my gas situation (My gas gage is broke on my bus), so I continued into Maine until I encountered the town of North Paris, Maine. I went into the gas station and asked to fill my tank before I paid, due to the fact that I was paying in cash, and my gauge was broke. The guy said ‘sure, as long as you pay’, and I went on my merry way, pumping the premium fuel into the bus. It was after the pump shut off and the meter red around $50.00 that I patted my pockets and felt nothing but my leg.

My wallet was gone.

After quickly checking the rest of my pockets and the bus, I deduced that I had left my wallet on the counter at the gas station in Bethel – 45 minutes and a state away. I convinced the gas station guy to let me drive back to the station to get the wallet, after giving him my license plate number (Oregon Plates, btw. I live in Vermont. This is less than legal) and my word that I would return, and I turned the bus around and drove the 45 minutes back to Gorham. It was in Bethel, Maine, what I believe to be the last town in Maine before New Hampshire that I was pulled over for the first time in my life. 50 in a 30, construction zone, at around midnight, on a Sunday. Illegal plates, no wallet, meaning no license, no registration, no inspection, no insurance. In short, I was screwed.

After telling Mr. Policeman that I had none of the things that he was asking for, he asked my basic information. (Now, this is key) I said Roy, R-O-Y, then Mercon, while lifting up my Army uniform and showing him my name tape while I spelt M-E-R-C-O-N for him.

“Oh, you’re in the service, you say?”

“Yes, Officer, I am.”

“Well, I was gonna tow you, but now I’m gonna just give you a $280 fine.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He went to his car to look me up, to see if I was who I said I was. Meanwhile, I was on the phone, letting my parents and Heidi know I got pulled over, and to standby. Oh, did I mention it was pouring rain at this time? After about 5 minutes, he came back to my window, and told me that, according to the Great State of Maine, Roy Mercon did not exist. Now, I was born here, so I know that that couldn’t be right. After getting some more info from me, including my social and all that, he went back to his car, and again, he came back.

“Well, Mr. Mercon, according to my computer, you don’t exist. Please be careful when driving through town, and mind the speed limit. Have a nice day.”

He let me go. With a verbal warning. That is luck, right there.

So, future renewed, I drove the final 10 miles to the gas station in New Hampshire. Different gas station lady. No wallet and no way to look at the cameras until Monday. Screwed. Again. Or was I?

I went through my bus completely. Under back seats, behind curtains, under the sink, everywhere. It was nowhere to be found. While I was doing this, another cop pulls into the gas station.

“What are you up to, son?”

I explained the situation, in three part harmony, and the guy just shook his head.

“That sucks, son. Tell you what; I’m gonna drop off my partner here at the station, and then I’ll come back and see If we can’t figure this whole thing out. I’ll be back in about 5.”

Sure enough, 5 minutes later, the cruiser pulled into the gas station.

“Now, where is this wallet of yours?”

He pulls out his MAG Light, and without asking to enter or anything, climbed into the back of the bus, flashlight sweeping. After a few, he steps out.

Sure enough, he found nothing. “You’re wallet’s not in here, son.”

He reached into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet.

“Will $50 get you on your way?”

Hands me a fitty, Grant looking up at me, with just the hint of a smile.

“Here’s my card. Pay me back when you can. Good luck.” And he drives away, leaving me dumbstruck. 2 cops in as many hours. Both with unbelievable occurrences.

So, I decided to drive back to North Paris. I figured I could at least keep my promise and pay that guy back for the gas he gave me. When I pulled out of that gas station, it hit me. Between my two stops, I had pulled over on the side of the road to relieve myself. Maybe it was there that my wallet was. I drove cautiously through Maine, not about to push my luck any further than I already had, until I reached what I thought was the fated construction zone where I pulled over. I then put the bus into first and hugged the white line, high beams illuminating the rain hitting the brand-new pavement. I was hoping against hope to see a black leather wallet on the side of the road in the pouring rain in the middle of the night. I had no other choice.

It was the speed bump in the road that did it, I think. The bus, without warning, died. No lights, no radio, no engine. Just darkness, no wallet, the middle of the road in the middle of the night.

With tears welling in my eyes, I went to the back of the bus to check the engine. I’m not a car guy, but it was quite obvious what had happened. The battery terminal popped off in such a way that I had to reach and find my inner MacGyver figure out some creative ways to fix it. After about 20 minutes, the lights popped back on, as loyal as ever. I got back in the bus, and crossed my fingers as I turned the key. The engine started. Then I looked in front of the car. What was that square-shaped black bump in the road? Could it be?

As I picked up my wallet, all $250 still inside, I thought to myself, “There’s no way anyone’s gonna believe what happened tonight.”

But no shit, world, this totally happened.

We are nowhere, and it's now.

This morning, I saw an Air Force dude sitting at a table, with a laptop and a Dora the Explorer book. He was reading his little daughter a bedtime story. I'm so glad i don't have kids right now. I don't think I could do that.

So, it's been a while. too long. I promised myself I'd write at least every day. i want to give those who are rooting for me back home something to look forward to.

Now that I've completed my rest and recuperation leave, I think I can give a proper assessment of what went down. Makes sense, right? Now that it's over, I can talk about it.

I was really apprehensive the night before I got on the plane to go home. Would home be as I'd left it? Would leave be as enjoyable and full of adventure as I'd hope it'd be? Would people get sick of me after a bit? What would be different about me, and would people notice?

Well, I gotta say, I was quite impressed with the way it all went down. Sure the flights (Bagram-Kuwait-Germany-Atlanta-JFK-Vermont, a total of 21 hours of flight) were crazy long, but each stage was one less I had to deal with. I was coming home! Taco Bell, Boston, Sheila, 4th of July, Ben, Kennedy, family, sleeping in... what's not to love and look forward to?

About a week into the whole thing, I tried to think back to the 5 months I've spent so far away from home. It felt like years ago. Details were fuzzy, and the only real memories I had were from the stories of my adventures I've told countless times. It was good, though. It allowed me to focus on the here and now.

I don't feel that anyone I was around understood what I've gone through. Sure, I'm not infantry, and I'm not in gunfights everyday. But trust me, Afghanistan leaves a lasting impression on you, whatever you are doing, whereever you are. No one I was with saw the things I've seen, or felt the things I've felt. No one had trouble sleeping because fighter jets weren't screaming overhead at all hours of the night. No one understood that I had to check my car for IEDs before getting in it. No one got it. And it was totally okay that no one did. I would never want them to. It was hard, though, not being able to relate to anyone about what I've been through. I couldn't tell stories and things, because, let's face it, I still have 5 months to go, and I don't want to scare my loved ones.

The best part was the way that everything felt like normal. It was like I'd never left, in some aspects. I got to do about everything I set out to do with the small amount of time I had.

The hardest part? Saying goodbye to Kennedy. This little 3-year-old has such a hold on my heart, it actually hurt closing the door. Saying goodbye to Ben and Sheila was very hard to do, but I felt prepared for those things, because I've done them before. I haven't seen Kennedy in so long, and she grew so big. I can't stand being so far away from her. I've always wanted to be a huge part of her life, and I feel like she doesn't remember me from way back when. And I keep having to leave her. That is hard.

I'm back at Bagram now, and it's like nothing's changed, which is good. I'm gonna try to get into a better routine this time around. I'm waking up earlier, and plan on having a few hours of the day that is just mine. I'll use this time to workout if I wish, I can call home, I can have a leisurely breakfast, and I can get my head on straight for the day's work. I like the early morning a lot, I just hate the prospect of loosing a few hours of sleep. Because I absolutely love to sleep.

So, what else is there to say? Did I leave you wanting more? comment if you think there's something big I missed. I just started writing, and I'm not sure if i got it all down. Help me out here. The cool part about the internet is that there is an infinite amount of paper. I can write all day.