‘samwise davies’ diary post [decidedly offtopic]

June 21, 2008 at 1:16 pm Leave a comment

Probably to be followed by one in reverse order.  Whatever. 


6/21/2008 SDavies/houses on Taylor St

A first and very important note is that Angel/Anjali just isn’t the correct way to go.  Although Angel has an ideational basis there, that’s it.  The fictional friend has a role to play similar to Cindy’s at Bear Creek for one, whose main job was looking beautiful (like that of many others over the years).  I know and have known that people have found me attractive and I was offered such jobs and refused them because of some misguided pride.  Reality bears many  names and seemings and none of them are true–true like an edge, true like a representation, true as in intent.  The straight line is the exception if existent.  They’re curved, like the surface of the earth; circles, not squares.  Like the curve of light around a star.
Angel pretty much has to be malicious, I think.  Not totally, and not to the point of putting name to it, which is pretty much what “unconscious” means.  It stays in the backbrain and all else is merely expression, so the ideas given vent are merely reflections, just like our selves in relationship to our society, its protocols, and its names.  The differential between the name of a protocol and the protocol itself will always be extraordinarily revealing.  Skew factors in general indicate a great deal of what can’t at this point actually be stated.  It may be not so much that we don’t have the words for it as that we don’t know how to use them.  Bear in mind too that there is a strong and very evident prejudice against smart, beautiful women in this culture and most others.  Ours is just probably the very worst at admitting it.  The American’s greatest skill is being prejudiced and then trying to defend it.
It’s beginning to look like I just go ahead and post the Samwise Davies stuff on WebPost or whatever it is.  Should probably not use oregonnerd/oregongeek name?  Dunno.  Maybe I’ll ask for replies.  What is developing now is as real as it gets and quite a bit closer to SD than Glenn whatever.  Metamorphoses are not only guaranteed uncomfortable, but also frightening to witnesses, particularly anyone who cares.  Good thing that mama dear is gone.  She needs to have her Christian prejudices safely ensconced within the woody mounts of Montana, as she dwindles quietly.  I’ve never known her.  I had 5 years with her, she married Jay, I got adopted and the adventure began so to speak.  I did get information access.  I wonder why so many people through my life, looking back, seem to have been looking to me for leadership.  I don’t want power, and I don’t have a clue what most people want or enjoy.  I despise being copied.  Guess that answers the question that began the paragraph, although then again it could be grist for the mill on the PTSD bit.  Quite accurate even.
And I remember the sea again today.  Suddenly, for no particular reason.  I’d been to the coast as a child when we went to Hawaii (back when it was a territory, mind).  That’s not the sea, even when it forgets its boundaries and creeps across the land urged by the wind.  The land-tamed water near those shores are merely its edges.
I mean the sea where that cruiser (CLG-5, USS Oklahoma City) was rendered tiny, centered in a vast circle of water.  Really, of course, I’d travelled to Japan and then back on a ship because Aunt Marie (my adopted mother, mind) couldn’t stand aircraft.  [I actually can’t stand them well either, but not because of fear.  Scarred eustachian tubes.   Whatever.  Life sometimes sucks in many flavors.]  A passenger ship, though, rides differently from a warship or even a merchant ship.  Or maybe it was that the trip was so short. 
I used to sit for hours on that cruiser in places I knew, just watching the sea.  Mostly it was at dusk.  I was privileged, though, so sometimes I just went where no “non-commissioned officer” could possibly dare go–up on the O-2 or -3 level–during daylight.  It was mostly comm gear in that area anyway.  I remember the lightning around the equator, out at sea, where it seemed that part of the bolt was somehow beneath the water’s surface…and I remember the war’s explosions, sometimes so like those strikes or even mixed with them.  I remember watching a low-level bombing run, my first night near the Vietnam coast, and knowing just what it was, knowing I imagined the screams.  It might have been a couple of miles away, and at that age I had far better than perfect version.  We were burning hard copies of classified documents, it was before we got the shredder.
And I remember the seas and the weird little islands between the Phillipines and Hong Kong, and the feelings of palpable tension because of course we visited both–Commander Seventh Fleet, after all, three star admiral–not far from each other.  Chiang and Mao were both still alive? I can’t actually remember.  Mao was.
But I remember most of all that liquid siren’s call, and the tales it told; tales not in words, and near impossible to retell–but tales apt to capture the hearer of and by themselves.

Entry filed under: writing and thought. Tags: , , , .

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