We could reprise some of the excitement at The Farm about book publication. It had its moments, and some challenges for the days to come, but will spare you the trivia of the joys of rural publishing. Coming alive again with sufficient caffeine, it was a strange ambivalent morning in the Piedmont. Unusually warm, nearly 20 degrees above average, but beneath a troubled gray sky and with winds strong enough to blow the cover off the grill. From the flat-screen in the Bunk House there was more tumult and misery from a place far away. It was laden with the juxtaposition of memory regarding new and agonizing old conflicts.

There was also “old news” from another place that changed names according to the imperfect translations of sounds. According to forensic examination, Splash claimed this ‘news’ was from 42 years ago. Contained within were words a 29-year old white male wrote to his 27 year old sibling about impending changes in life. The Chairman had it on one of those ancient floppy discs no longer in current use.

Splash has a hodge-podge of old technology in the pile he has jumbled atop an old folding table. Between sips of coffee, he was feeding square pieces of stiff folded paper containing rings of brown plastic film into a small external drive connected to his laptop. He shouted in triumph when one of them worked, bringing an ancient format document to life, brandished with newer warning labels of “DISCONTINUITY” and “FILE SYSTEM NOT SUPPORTED: CHECK SYSTEM ADMIN.” This file, one that could be read, had a date at the top. It read, in part:

“8 June 1980

Seoul

Dear Spike…”

And it went on from there. Splash read with vigor, dispensing the minutiae of the health of people now long dead, and the health of some of the institutions on which they had invested time and energy when they lived. The narrative eventually got to a point:

“I write poised on the horns of a dilemma.

Let me briefly outline the circumstances of this thing: I have to make an Important Decision about the next few years right quick… I vacillate daily, because the Job stinks, and since I loath a simple majority of the people I work with, one would think the thing would be easy.

The problem is that I fear I have become addicted to a powerful drug. It has got into my bones and there is nothing I can do about it. I have discovered I am a crisis junky. I have come to enjoy the delicious unsettling experience of having armed people who don’t like me running around spewing propaganda. I look at my hands and the growing number of graying hairs on my head aghast. I thought I could handle my crises. I can’t be this driven creature with a set of jump boots and two illegal handguns under my camouflage fatigues, can I?”

The narrative would at first glance seem odd, though quick a look at the year it was written in the Republic of Korea was illuminating. There had been a military coup with the Yankees in uneasy proximity. A major protest in the university town of Kwang-ju- “K-sounds” also being “G-sounds”- resulted in hundreds of civilian deaths. With the Ukraine news droning in the background today, some of it seems appropriate. The times were, as the Chairman noted in an underlined section: “A powerful drug”

These times also contain something powerful, but not infused with the spirit of adventure and excitement. Now the drugs are the ones that ward off the pain of aging and encourage restive sleep. Today, the sight of a blasted apartment building does not convey excitement. Only sadness for the 29-year-olds who are homeless tonight, listening to the complaints of their small children for whom choices are being made.

The letter continued with thoughts of what was to come. There were paragraphs analyzing a transition from military to civilian life. Of the prospects for the next crisis and how to best enjoy it. We know how it worked in reality, and what flowed from the decisions made then. Sitting in a circle around the ashes of the Fire Ring, we saw another circle. This one, centered on a ring of ashes, conveyed something else. Splash held up the tablet from which he had been reading. “So here is how the Chairman told his brother how he was going to make his decision:”

“Well listen, Spike, this is entirely too convoluted for me to fathom. The summer monsoon seems to have arrived, and if I am to walk the five miles down to the Naija Hotel for my big Day Off Binge, I had better get a move on. I promise that I will let you know when I make the big decision, but in the meantime, start looking around…

Take care,

Vic”

“These days,” DeMille said, rising to start the Sunday production meeting, “I think he would have concluded with a word we understand a little better. He would have said “love.”

Copyright 2022 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotracom