Posts filed under ‘Autobiography’

A Long Hiatus

I can start writing again now about some real things as well as at least occasionally ‘publishing’ some poetry. I realized recently that I was being very egotistical when I judged my own poetry to be bad when others appreciated it. I know quite certainly I’m not my writing’s best judge, because I throw out most of it, and others have protested. It’s compulsive and obsessive. The real root is having been adopted into a Navy family, and making the rather startling transition in less than a year from a rural type (“country boy”, and quite literally) into a “rug rat” and within a couple of years I was a gang leader. I believe this is the first time I’ve admitted that. It wasn’t the last time. If I had been one my second year in Japan, it would have been a different gang. By gang I mean a bunch of people who have common ‘principles’, aims and goals mostly provided by their desperate need for a leader.

It’s rather difficult to stop that; yes, that’s a deliberate understatement. You can’t. I recently [oh, hell, I’m old; seven years ago is practically yesterday] found out that my classmates from high school remembered me. It turned out that apparently a lot of them were basically trying to copy me. My minor problem was that starting at thirteen, I really couldn’t communicate with my peers. That did turn out to be a misconception. The one person in the de Jong family to whom I was closest understood me. He merely hadn’t yet managed to find a way to express himself. When I saw him in 2013 and it was blatantly evident, I realized again how many bad mistakes I’ve made. “Why are you always so silent?” I suggested on Quora that it was “Because every time I do people tell me they don’t know what I’m talking about.” Although somewhat true, it’s much more “It’s because I hear so much better when I’m not speaking.”

At that age, it was true. I could talk with teachers pretty much on their own level.

At age 15, talking to my peers was indeed fruitless, and teachers started literally running from me when they could see I was approaching them because they knew I’d ask a question that wasn’t easy to answer and more often than not they didn’t know what it was. [I was 17 when I graduated. By all rights I should have taken summer class, taken the one class that only “seniors”–once you’ve graduated from junior you are that–could take and get the one credit I needed. However, I was determined to join the Navy as an enlisted man. How sure was I that I could have gone to Annapolis from the start? I wasn’t surprised the first day on the USS Oklahoma City (CLG-5) when I was offered Annapolis for my signature. I was four months out of boot camp. Having placed at the top .1% of the nation’s high school students in every subject but math–including subjects I’d never formally studied–and then having confirmed I wasn’t crazy (to myself, anyway) by having answered every question on the Stanford-Binet test correctly, which was supposed to be impossible and invalidated the test. However, I couldn’t join the Navy until I was 17 and my–adopted parents, aunt and uncle by blood, along with my ‘sister’ and the brother who turned out to be an incestuous pedophile and every tangled and twisted turn you can imagine–were simply not people I understood and entirely mistrusted. Waiting for a year (almost) wasn’t something I thought I could endure. Enough, I’m not in the least proud of this. In my experience I was normal. I didn’t feel abnormal.]

And, yes, by the age of 16 (when I took that test) I was already beyond desperate. I was taking honor classes and being told to never answer a question unless no one else could. Perhaps I should add that I had a November birth date. If you haven’t added the years up already, yes, I was 5 years old when I started in first grade.

All I wanted to do with that I.Q. test was ‘prove’ [the empirical scheme toward ‘truth’ only involves the transition of an hypothesis to a theory] that I was sane. My sociology teacher/counselor was the one who taught me that answering all the other questions correctly plus the ‘control’ question (anything less than all the other questions answered correctly meant that the chance of answering it correctly basically went from incalculable to one in five) invalidated the test. He also told me, after I told him I was going to take the test at the Navy recruiter’s office (why? it was free, and otherwise cost at least $75, and in the late 60’s that was a fair amount of money for most kids in high school–I blew mine, too, on books, mostly $.25 DAW (Donald A. Wolheim) paperback books–necessarily science fiction; at that time most nonfiction could be had free), to be sure and not answer all the questions correctly. Of course, when I found out I had, I told him; he shook (side to side, since that varies culture to culture) his head and frowned at me. “But I didn’t think I could.” He gave me a sad, understanding half-smile and just walked away.

When I joined the Navy I found out the reason for his reaction.

July 24, 2020 at 11:19 pm Leave a comment

An Addendum; a Partial Autobiography

I agonized over this for many years. Part of the reason was that basically my story can’t be true, because it involves things that were absolutely illegal (I was told so, told that I could refuse…but I would have to do it anyway and at the same time I was told that I could do whatever I wanted–it’s possible that this even included using drugs which would have had to involve allowing me to know in advance when a test would come). It would have to involve some unbelievable abilities on my part; it would have to have as a premise that I had the highest IQ of anyone who took the test prior to 1968. I would have to have had, in fact, the highest IQ in the world at that time, with the possible exception of Albert Einstein.

I would have to have a reading speed of about 10K per minute (but considerably slowed by turning pages–printouts from the teletype machine didn’t involve pages, and from the printer there were folds; it would have been slowed further by the fact that I was proofreading [YES, while reading] to about 5K per minute and the fact that the documents which were used as source for messages were invariably paged and not unusually handwritten, almost always had errors in spelling, punctuation and grammar. I also often had comments to make on the given subject, if they came from the admiral. The admiral in question was the Commander of Seventh Fleet–the US Far East Navy. Oops. I meant, the Commander of the US Far East Armed Services. That means all except clandestine operations were under his command. They were to some extent but deniability had to be maintained.

I would have to have been allowed to do research using the Navy Communications network. I would have to be a genius by normal standards. That ‘genius’ would have to only an ability to ‘see’ patterns and manipulate them, remembering only the patterns photographically. That would be the source of my private saying then, “Tell me two things and you tell me three”. When told hundreds of thousands of things, many more patterns lie revealed.

To restate that, I had a “want to know” clearance. For everyone else that was “need to know”.

Within two months of becoming a ‘traffic checker’*, I was followed in every port except Yokosuka, our home port. I was told there would be, before it started. That couldn’t have been the entire truth, but it doesn’t matter. They even had someone in the communications (Radioman) division whose sole real purpose was watching me. After I wrote a note to the Navy (two and a half pages, 8″ X 11.5″, handwritten) they started photographing my log book while I was absent. That note included knowledge of things I never read a thing about in Navy Communications; an example was the knowledge about what the 7 geostationary and the two maneuverable satellites were for.

This will do as a prologue or part of one. I’ve become convinced that I actually need to do this–impart information.

June 5, 2020 at 7:17 pm Leave a comment

VA and its invisibility


My first reaction to this was “How little that person knows the VA”.  By the end of it, I realized how much ignorance that betrays–on my part for not considering that lack of knowledge might  be systemic, on a social basis because the VA has taken steps to prevent unwelcome/unexpected monitoring.

Any social structure depends upon stability, most of all provided by the infrastructure, which isn’t elected and goes by its own criteria.  This provides something most easily termed inertia.

I am not prepared at this moment to delve into my experience with the VA.  I suspect that’s upcoming.  If you have an opinion, let me know whether or not I should just post it to a blog, or withhold it from that process–assuming that I have the 5 years and six months at least–and seek publication.

It’s prompted by two things.  The first is what amounts to a Theory of Relativity (Modal Philosophy/Perspectival Nature of Reality) that I probably do need to disseminate. [There is an odd chain of logic in my poetry that tends to be about one’s perception of reality.]  The second is the limited time.  It’s the only method I can think of to explain at the same time as presenting it.  Oddly enough, the experiments have been done.


If you have a reaction–get it out quickly or not, let me know; and of course if you have no opinion…


April 26, 2018 at 1:04 pm Leave a comment

On True Love And Its Essential Value

On True Love and Its Essential Value

having turned
and turned again
to that (now faded)
portrait of you, a bust…

You are so much
a part of me
there is no place
i can say, you began…

And i knew this, that there
was no forgetting.
I knew that then.
I did not hold.  I let go.

having turned
and turned again
to your portrait…at length, for a while, i manage to
look away.

Actually quite true–except for having a bust.  I have no pictures of her at all, unless memory counts.  It happened–that year did–about 38 years ago.  I try not to think of her, and when I do, it is as if (to others) I were having an ‘absence seizure’ or petit mal.  Some paths you may only walk once, and expect afterwards unending echoes, so to speak.

And how could I do aught else?  I’d even said I loved her.  I’m trying to learn that phrase again with my brother.  Before that, my adopted mother, who would cherish the phrase for a moment and then think of something cruel to do; I even had witnesses.  Oh, and I had to say it, or I wasn’t being dutiful.  Before that…more to forget.  Nice to have actually forgotten some things.  Oh well.  Things happen; we all occasionally live “in interesting times.”

September 29, 2016 at 7:22 pm Leave a comment

Reliving a Sequence

That’s what I’m doing just now.


Here’s where the string of choices starts.  I’m at best an agnostic with an apparently sincere offer from Dr. Runner of Dordt College for a scholarship.  Based on my understanding of his lecture about Dooyeveert and Modal–Relativity.  There are many ways to approach that and some are actually nearly intrinsically valid.  However one must include that the most used method of transaction uses relativistic measures as if they were absolute, and the network (society) which depends upon that must use the same blindness.  I had been hovering on agnosticism for a long time.  I had thought of the modal bit the summer before, although there were delightful ramifications here that could possibly fit with other things.


Could I possibly accept the offer and be honest?  [Long later, yes, you ass.  He even knew.]


My adopted parents offered college on the basis of my grade point average.  Could I depend upon them?  No.  My aunt might even manage to make me get bad grades (she managed that in…freshman year, where I said the “fuck it” thing and went that route, which got me a psychiatrist–a delightful friend, nothing about therapy, sorry–a long talk with various people and then I went to filling out things that I already knew…the patterns of the motivations of those who wrote the questions, got homework done in 15 minutes a day, unless it was unusually hard, 20, math was hopeless; I could program a calculator or a computer but…even with a calculator…so that at the end I got over 3.5, yay) or do what she hinted she would have done, mandated I quit smoking.


Fifteen minutes.  The teachers were running from me, terrified of my questions.  I was mad or I was something else.  Every teacher I asked about my intelligence looked at me in a terrified way (you are crazy, bud) and managed to bolt.


The Armed Forces had a row of offices; Navy and Marine, Army, Air Force–or maybe during Vietnam they actually let the Marines have their own office.  I walked toward them; relatively short-haired, probably smoking a cigarette, neatly dressed (I was a dependent, after all; freedom was a word invented later), school books in hand [that’s bull shit, if anything I had a book I was reading].  I swear their ears moved up.  I went to the Navy office, and the others gradually drooped.  Whidbey Island is cool enough that air conditioning isn’t the norm, or at least that’s the way it was, word has it that things have warmed there too as the sea rises, crumbling the island more rapidly just as the ant hill moves to bare it and sit atop it.


They had a thing called a GCT test, you see.  That’s sort of like saying an SSD* drive, but whatever.  General Classification Test. test.  Whatever.  *Solid State Drive


I had two things in mind.  I knew I loved the sea, a story I may later tell.  That GCT was derived from the Stanford-Binet.  Directly.  Otherwise you had to pay more money than I conveniently had.


As expected I can’t do this any more today.  I have a severe head ache.  I’ve been lifting my arms somewhat and lowering my head and I’m engendering consequently a roaring headache…



July 30, 2016 at 7:24 pm Leave a comment

Yesterday’s Entry

That was merely the release of pent-up frustration, built over nearly six decades.  There were moments when I was “one of them”.  Unfortunately early something else also intervened, that of consciousness, enlightened or (probably) not.  When I mentioned “my genius” yesterday I did so in light of a couple of government tests based on the Stanford-Benet (version 1970s) [skipping similar whatevers on whatever; I detest bragging simply because most of my (known) family so delighted in it, and I know I overdo it in my detestation, c’est le whatever once again; You Can’t Go Home Again most particularly if you find you weren’t there in the first place a depressing number of times].  My Aunt Marie had a high I.Q., periodic depression and self-loathing (leading to sadism, and, I suspect masochism) and even the records of her flights toward and acquisition of knowledge.  My Aunt Marie.  My Mom.  Or then again there’s Barbara.  My Mom.  The second, however, occurred legally when I was 7, seconds (days; it was the…never mind; six days) before I was 8 and enraging my now (half) sister and brother soon because that meant a whole lot of presents for me, what with Christmas and then all that…


Before that, there had been three years with Mom.  The first one, Barbara.  The one who immediately tried to have me aborted but I did the miscourtesy of birthing early–a month early, according to my steely-minded biological mother.  No, I never use sarcasm.  There were good parts.  On her side she simply had to get fucked.  I’m sorry, but bush-beating isn’t in the cards just now.  Or banging heads against walls in the vain attempt to avoid the brutal onset of the realization of the truth.  One does it, or rather the crowd does; it’s even contagious, you know, like the rebirthed dance from side to side of the nimble-footed and dull-witted pedestrians, in memory of my youth (presumably there are even old textbooks around still recording it), the one I personally solved by stopping and waiting.  I have weak ankles, you see.  Doing the Dance wasn’t in.  Doing all sorts of things to shy away from the Truth, the Whole Truth…wait a minute, I’ve gone off course here; no, I don’t mean to imply that there is such a thing.  Most of history is about nimble dances around perceived holes in the ground, said ‘holes’ consisting of, well, Truth, in minor manifestations.  I mean, it can happen.  Really.  Sort of.  She would get a few nights off and come back bathed in the fumes of nicotine and alcohol and fat and happy.  I’m going to leave the old phrase alone there because it’s so fitting.  By the end of a week or two she would be sagging and consumed with nothing but Truth in various manifestations.  I was the fart at the brunch, being a bastard.  No, I’m not pointing out my abominable behavior; I’m a bastard.  By birth.  I have no proper last name.  Whereas that’s no big thing now it was in the late 1950s in Jackson County.  They had Sundowner laws here until relatively recently; one city may still have them on the books.  There was pressure for me to vanish or find a father, preferably the former.  I was an embarrassment, and also to the family.


The 3 years, you see, was a trial, even to an infant.  Or perhaps not just any baby, I wouldn’t know.

Then there was Jay, who was an abuser.  He did bruise me a bit, but I did some unbelievable things for play by myself as well.  No, there’s no reason to report that without being asked.  The things I did weren’t sexual [in my world they couldn’t be, since I was 5].  And nearly 3 years later I was adopted.


That’s my life.  That’s the real world.  The very idea of being able to assign any importance to the nature of my biological father is somewhere between laughable and infuriating–and I have verified PTSD.  No more turning in circles because at a crucial point I’m very likely to snap and try to kill.  No one is going to try to entice me into it now, even if the possibility ever existed.  ::the sound of that tree in that unpeopled forest::


July 9, 2016 at 7:02 pm Leave a comment