Like The Corner's Of My Mind

When I was at Kemper, in Doyle's English class, we wrote, often. And I loved when Becko would write his stories! Was in contact with him not too long ago, hes a reality producer in California. Saw some pictures of him; still looks the same. And I bet he still has that voice of his.

In any case, I had written once about the year at Kemper. What special weekends were going on (Parents, Old Boy's) vacations, etc. Even now I can almost tell you what was going on during any month. And I remember stories of things that happened. Things that happened to me. Friends.

Yeah I want to write them down. But, whats my motivation? In the article of Why Men Love War, (previous post) there was a part about a soldier trying to describe war; he said something about word overload. Or failure to understand the point the writer was trying to get across. I can tell the story of what happened, but understanding?

I could start off by talking about my first memories of Kemper-my dad taking me over there to shoot. The mess hall incident. I even remember meeting Gen. Blakefield as a civilian (I was a typical kid at that time I remember, definitely NOT sitting up straight in my chair). Or I could tell how when my dad helped me with my trunk and I saw a little black kid getting help with his dad, and he wasn't upset (I was already homesick). And my dad pointed out that he wasn't carrying or anything. And then he gave me some money. Or I could tell how my dad "sweet talked" James Parker Dowling, on the Officer's Porch to get me a better room; one that didn't look into the court but looked out onto the street. I remember that view; the light coming on at night-the one that worked that was on the drive into Kemper. Or how my dad slung his arm around a tall black cadet's shoulder and told him to keep an eye on me.

See-I just did all that in a paragraph. I can ad sights, sounds, what I was thinking then and what I am thinking now. But so? Everything was hyper there at that time; my first year. Sights, sounds, smells, memories. They are engraved into my soul like someone had used a knife and carved them. I can bring forth memories of how buildings looked, the sounds, the smells, the way you could look through one of the vestibule's windows coming down from 3rd floor B barrack and see the president's house and how they always left that light on over the stove at night. Talk about latching onto something and deriving comfort from it. But I did. The same thing every night.

Ok, that's enough for now.