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grinninfooleHere's something I haven't ever shared with anyone (inspired by solstyce); the way my mind wanders more or less constantly.
Today, riding the express to UMass, I took out my book to read a bit more. I didn't even crack it open, however, because I was caught by a passing fancy. Normally, I would simply forget something like this by now, but because of a sudden urge to write it down to share with y'all, here it is.
I started thinking about war in Iraq, and some articles I read in Newsweek by former Viet Nam soliders about their experiences, and about the fact that perhaps a quarter of soldiers in a fight don't actually fire their weapons. I imagined myself as a soldier in viet nam, suddenly confronting an NVA soldier at close quarters as a fire fight raged around us. Both of us are startled. Neither of us shoots. We stare at each other for a bit, then I offer him a cigarette (which I am carrying because I know other people value them--even in fantasy I don't smoke.) We hunker down together, share the cigarette, a chocolate bar, and some booze that he's got. (I don't care for that, either.) I point to my chest and say "Mike". He points to his and says "Fu Yao" (which sounds Chinese, rather than Vietnamese even to my untrained ear--which makes it as inappropriate as having him say "Bill Jones". But whatever.)
Anyway, the sounds of battle subside, so I hand him the cigarettes and head back towards my side (which, in stark contrast with reality, I am confident I will find with ease--and rightly so).
Then, my character (and at this point, I start to think of him as such) starts writing letters, which he doesn't send, to Fu Yao. They run something like
Dear Fu Yao,
I was in a big fight yesterday near Ba Lam (again, random syllables. Ap Lam would be better.). I shot some people in a stand of trees. I couldn't see them very well. I hope you weren't one of them. I hope none of them were your friends or family. I'd really like to go home.
Today, riding the express to UMass, I took out my book to read a bit more. I didn't even crack it open, however, because I was caught by a passing fancy. Normally, I would simply forget something like this by now, but because of a sudden urge to write it down to share with y'all, here it is.
I started thinking about war in Iraq, and some articles I read in Newsweek by former Viet Nam soliders about their experiences, and about the fact that perhaps a quarter of soldiers in a fight don't actually fire their weapons. I imagined myself as a soldier in viet nam, suddenly confronting an NVA soldier at close quarters as a fire fight raged around us. Both of us are startled. Neither of us shoots. We stare at each other for a bit, then I offer him a cigarette (which I am carrying because I know other people value them--even in fantasy I don't smoke.) We hunker down together, share the cigarette, a chocolate bar, and some booze that he's got. (I don't care for that, either.) I point to my chest and say "Mike". He points to his and says "Fu Yao" (which sounds Chinese, rather than Vietnamese even to my untrained ear--which makes it as inappropriate as having him say "Bill Jones". But whatever.)
Anyway, the sounds of battle subside, so I hand him the cigarettes and head back towards my side (which, in stark contrast with reality, I am confident I will find with ease--and rightly so).
Then, my character (and at this point, I start to think of him as such) starts writing letters, which he doesn't send, to Fu Yao. They run something like
Dear Fu Yao,
I was in a big fight yesterday near Ba Lam (again, random syllables. Ap Lam would be better.). I shot some people in a stand of trees. I couldn't see them very well. I hope you weren't one of them. I hope none of them were your friends or family. I'd really like to go home.
