Despite Myself

 Writing about long-ago experiences has a liberating effect on me. These bits of history seem to be bouncing around in my head every day of my life. In an odd way, they prevent me from moving forward, in ways that are insignificant but cumulative. It creates a Memory Almost Full (McCartney album reference intended) effect. Releasing the words into space relieves the keeping of the guard on memories. It also augments the story, so that it is never forgotten. It is really the best of both worlds.

I have discovered a weird side effect in all of this. Some of these stories take months to write. I started in 1984 in the mid-nineties and finished it just a couple of years ago. Pleased with this result, I started a 1985 story, only to reach May and find myself suddenly staring down the barrel of one of the no-win relationships of my life. It has not moved since.

I started Safe Haven, but its heaviness was tiring, especially because it posed as fiction while offering a dose of anonymity. It stalled at a big event and is waiting for me to resume. I honestly do not know when that will be. 

Tired of the cloak and dagger style that Safe Haven demanded, I moved into "The Bravery in out of Range." This is a real account of Desert Storm, which begins the moment I deplaned in Dharan, Saudi Arabia, in 1991. I plan on finishing this story in short order.

What I have noticed is that when I get involved in one of these chaptered stories, it can be difficult to put a one-page, single-idea piece out. I miss those. So I am writing about it because there is something about the words that clears things up like this and sorts them out.

This is me, not waiting for inspiration or coherence. I am looking to overcome those weird little roadblocks I set up for myself. I recall during basic training. We were on the 20-mile road march. First of all, there is no road. We were walking full pack in deep sand. I recall that we were in a thick part of the woods, and we were tactical. (That's 2 columns of troops, each looking forward and flank, spaced out far enough not to be taken out together, but close enough for support).

Photo by Holly Landkammer on Unsplash

I saw something that day which proved to me that our minds are far more advanced than we can imagine. OP-4 was waiting on the right, tucked back in the foliage, completely concealed. Even more so, they were in full camo so that even if you looked right at them, they would completely blend into the backdrop. Head and eyes forward, all of us stepping so quietly so as not to make noise, I saw them, but in my brain, not with my eyes. They were green, and the shape of their heads made me think of lima beans. I could feel them watching. The tension was high, and my brain drew them so that I could see them without even looking. It was like nothing I have ever experienced. Immediately, the attack was on, canisters of CS (tear) gas hit the path, and we were scattered trying to defend ourselves while also trying to don our protective masks as the air in our lungs burned and turned us inside out. You just don't forget something like that. By "something," I mean that image in my mind's eye. Every time I think about this, I am reminded that we are made more magnificently than we think. I can do anything.

So what does it take? How do I break the ranks of long storytelling, just to have the freeing feeling of writing a short piece to get through the day, the week, this winter? I just have to do it. Because here I am, doing it. Despite the roadblocks, despite myself.