Saturday, 27 December 2014

To Miles 47

Alcohol was more of drinking with Jamie, giving it a more sudden and dazed feeling to our meetings, making the encounter tilted with something more physical to let our feet wander and tongues. 

I shoved a spoon in my mouth, Jamie still vivid and I didn’t seem to be following the gossip, as Carlos glanced at Brian who was now sitting alone, instead he would be doing something with Jamie or both would read, but instead he seemed a bit out of place, even if he had known everything what to do, he was still more than aware that now he was alone. And he seemed to be watching everyone, just looking around, even a bit lost, just emotionally and if I weren’t such lower of a rank I would join him, but then that would cause a bit of a stir even in my head, so I just watched him and I wondered how would I even approach Brian. 

There is something very bizarre to heartbroken women, which seems oddly obscure to me at times and I wonder if the news had even broken out to Alison and how much would Alison resemble Lana and I wonder how much do we even muse on it, I remember how Lana had broken up and how she would speak more quiet, smoke and seemed far different from how I had been angry and irritated, before sinking into the same thing, only I had felt awful for how long Lana’s empty state kept elevating her into some unknown abyss which seemed to be off limits and I wonder how much the more I blur genders in my head, even those in between, there still seem to be lines, because there always seems to be and I wonder how much do stereotypes fit or is it solely because myself is always static? 

I wonder if Alison would be such and I wonder if it is the female depression and broken state which states that creativity is needed, that the mood is the canvas, but it wouldn’t be for me to know, my thoughts would expand, but it were Matt who would be capable of writing love letters, I could just catch myself describing my day in more accurate ways and wandering into walls which would manage to break my love down, but never did, all I would get is dust in my hair and I would pretend to be blonde, love wouldn’t wash off 

and that which does

is not love, it doesn’t even crash into a wall, it slips through the fingers like an unwanted wasted dream. 

And it’s as if I am eager for something which won’t happen, it’s as if waiting on a shooting star at night and wondering, on the deck, if I were to lay down, to let myself imagine that I would do something like that, make my past more beautiful and give myself memories as if less sincere, but filled with everything I could’ve done and one of them making me wonder, how was Jamie earlier? What had he sounded like as a child, when had his voice broken and had he brushed his teeth to have a tooth fall out back when you would count how many milk teeth would you have left and how much would have the gap felt between us as children?

How many thoughts would be carried before merged into dreams when he had been a teenager and who was the first person he had kissed, how many girlfriends had he had before going with a man and how mixed had his thoughts been then and was there someone there just like Matt had been there for me? But supposedly Karen was the first who properly stirred his mind, prior to Alison and if I registered correctly they had both slept a first time together, but Karen was a woman, who had been the first man? How much had his thought escalated and how much confusion had led into gay bars and how awkward he had seemed, walking in and what had he actually been wearing? Were the cocktails too diluted? Was the music too loud? Were the people yelling as usual? Was it loud? How many raids had there been? Had he ever been asked if he were a queer and liked it up the ass? 

There is some melancholy after education where the part where you learn gets pushed back and out, like dirt and a cuticle, it stops mattering and sometimes in the wrong mindset the question is asked, what was that for and I always wondered how did other people feel after education, when they would progress onto other things? When was the last time I even carried an actual riffle and tried to shoot at something either pretending that it were a person or a target?

It all even seemed fun and games and I wondered how long would the melancholy trail for all of us, since we were always prepared, as if to be kicked out of bed in the middle of the night to solely do something which we would discuss whenever we would have to get some Marines for a brief while on the ship, Julian would be the one asking why had they never flinched at any of Hince’s speeches, but they just stated at least he never did anything else and mopping decks wasn’t as degrading but then it’s not like we ourselves held one person’s life at the end of our guns. It all narrowed down to something more abstract, a ship, not even in a game understanding, but it seemed if I seemed to be going insane and detaching myself further from the shore, I would just be killing another person’s dystopia/utopia, yet for now it were just buoys which someone would have to put in place and then everyone would smoke on the deck for the comic effect.

Once you hear of someone else’s Captain’s, the grass on our ship would seem greener unless they had someone a tad bit lighter, some gunner I had met in a gay bar once, solely because he had seemed drunk, stated that on said carrier, no one cared, he would yell, but it was never personal and at least they never fucking cleansed the ship, because, if some were to cleanse, that would’ve been sounding from the tip of the gunner’s mouth and already dismantled pushed back and up hair, awful, but he seemed to be sure he’d be on the carrier and I wondered if he were just a gunner in the turret, that he waved off the possibility of changing into ships rather than carriers.

I had been too drunk to actually think and care. 

And the more I think, the more Hince’s actions seem reasonable on our dystopian scale, the yelling, the mopping, pushing everything further that I myself wonder who had been at fault, everything happened, every step you take, someone had done it, did you trip on the third stair? So did someone else. Did you lose your hat due to the wind? Someone else did on the same spot, because we still navigate on places which had people, because our world becomes rewritten and if there are so many of us, then we had done as many actions and we are taught the same things, even the same sins, so we all do the same or even inspire others to do the same, so all becomes an endless repetition in a room full of mirrors, only somehow we manage to find some part where we find a physical being or rather a mirror which seems to reflect someone we would love, sometimes we wander into the room drunk and it’s ourselves. 

And Hince had left me on shore leave and the question was plummeting down to my stomach to make me throw up, said powdered eggs, he had still left me. He was getting a second child, but I was left alone and would that be betrayal or just sharing over the blanket over night? And I wondered was it because Alison had called me upstairs and all of a sudden, she didn’t seem heartbroken like Lana, maybe she had known it all and needed to see what was there for me in the future and if it were my death, would all settle, would her sailor actually come back home to a cheating wife as well?

I wondered if there were even cases of wives shooting their husband’s foot just for them to desert and how widespread were some stories, were they because someone had walked on that path or because someone would? Were they the manual or the evening news? 

And how much were we even properly informed of our lives not to hallucinate in front of other mirrors, not see the wrong silhouettes in the reflections? And if to use the words “inner demons” properly, how come we had let them out and how come countries were invaded again and how come we would just watch, destroying buoys? It all comes under fight in your garden against your own bugs, but when someone had broken down the fence what could we do and all we do is finish drinking coffee and see if the stubble had grown enough to shave. 

And Hitler had been called person of the year two years ago now and here he was, Stalin was called person of the year last year. And how those two would roll their dice remained unknown and even our own stance was muffled, because we didn’t agree to protect the world, just our sole country with the wrong demons to fight, our homosexuality was bigger than people actually getting killed and thrown in a turmoil I had not known. Why had we named someone who took half a country a person of the year, because people don’t change, just because the actions initially were different, doesn’t mean that the person actually changed and the flash to capture the photo doesn’t change into someone else, they still look at the world with the same eyes.

I keep wondering where would this escalate and some hidden sense of surprise is surely ready to be released, because we all acknowledge that we will be surprised, only the question is how and how much blood will be on all the mirrors and even if I were to loop, would I even see his reflection somewhere or would I just see blood, trickling everywhere and scattered words in a language I wouldn’t understand, German written all over and more confusion from Stalin’s side for his own chunk and making it wonder or rather confirming that just like I had known nothing outside my own head and perhaps Jamie’s, I knew nothing, so something on a larger scale, on a different boat, if you must, was beyond me and the murders and the crimes committed were as distant as a crime novel. I had known nothing, all I would see is blood and confusion like all of us did

And when war erupts, you ignore it, because it’s still not on your lawn, because we’re told to still fear our lives even if it so happens that we die, the navy goes on and just someone else is put in the turret and in a way you go on, your spirit lives watching and the war becomes endless, no one dead, just out of rounds and the loaders not even goofing off, but solely watching each other, I think that is what happens once you die and the war is over. 

The imagery of bloodied mirrors haunts me, as I try to push it back, knowing that I should solely protect America and that’s where I was. I was preparing for anything, getting enough water in the basin and dunking my head in, right after coffee and pushing me further just to emerge coughing, as if seeing blood already on the mirrors, when you push yourself too hard you feel yourself going insane and it’s not even about desires to destroy, it becomes malicious to the mind, because there is no love to give, no hate to destroy and your own ignorance towards other nationalities fighting your own bloody American, because we don’t care what’s happening and even if we knew, they are still people labelled great by our own mouths regardless of what they do. We ourselves smeared our mirrors and how would I even love a country which falls into hating me for who I am?

How hypocritical am I and when would I break down finally? 

I wonder how bloody were mirrors in Jamie’s mind and how much blood had he spilt and how much had someone abstract like Hitler?

And the mind shifts like a tide, with spitting out water.

I recall kissing his skin and how intoxicating it feels in the most whirlwind of ways, traveling through the mind, shutting everything off and leaving desire in the nude, exposing plain human lust and pleasure. His skin kept haunting me and the whole desire slashed open with the fact that I were alone and he would feel as distant as the shore seemed to be scary, because with Matt I could stash him, I could take him out, I could leave us both waltzing and I had previously known and presumed that the kiss was the furthest we would get, that it would be it, it would be something similar to that one love they would explain which would linger, some broken heart which would always ache, only the problem was the further you go into life, all those which fall apart make sense, only perhaps death is the sole factor which remains love a mystery solved, perhaps Jack’s death is the one which could be glamorized with the gloss of isolation and adoration, as I hadn’t even properly given myself the thought of thinking of him.

It were odd to be alone with my thoughts and ruffle through the whole deck of cards, through all those Jacks in my life and the one dame who happened to be the beard, because Lana for all the officials was something which they expected me to be.

But the older I grew, the more I had been decisive to remain “alone” or with a friend, forever married to the sea, rather than the sailors for the officials and the society in which I served, because no matter which job you choose, you still serve America, you still keep people going, either fed or bred, 

and then there was the question of family blood, my parents ending up bleak at times, because just like Jamie, I would prefer not to speak much, but recall the places I had grown in and thought of Matt, let my lips wander down in my mind, I recall how I had kept wondering how he had sounded like, some carnal desire rising and unlocking all my imagination and the fact that all had happened didn’t tone it down at all, I never understood how one time sex with one partner was enough, it just seemed to make me ride wilder, make me want them much more, letting myself enjoy them, push them further, see how much my own pleasure would rise

and on a sexual note everything seemed to be the same, I would check out Miles whenever I was outside the turret for a quick smoke, the ship resuming the daily boring life and Brian walking around, in a manner like any Captain and Hince would. It seemed awfully nostalgic and the wrong deja vu is played. Carlos leaves my turret for a smoke and that’s when Brian instantly walks into it.

“Turner, keep doing your job, regardless if the Captain is here or not. I need you to fully even bring the buoy back to me at night.” His water coloured eyes look at me and it’s as if looking at Hince, just the fear the first time, knowing what was I used and how was I actually needed to seed out the navy. It’s an odd feeling, as I watch him take a deep breath, shrug lightly with his shoulders, narrow down his lips and mutter, that he’s sorry, before turning around and leaving-

I turn to him fully to see him leave, shaking lightly, as if the first time. 


I guess this chapter is more of a haze and imagery. I'm not sure if my MDD progressed onto bipolar or if I'm having manic/hypomanic episodes, so I guess a lot of Alex's destructive mood through out To Miles makes more sense now. So that had to be mentioned, obviously xD Anyway, onwards.

I dunno, even re-reading to go on the backstory I dunno, I guess To Miles is the work I'm the most proud of and I just love it to bits and Alex/Jamie in this story are surely my most favourite couple I've ever written or created for that matter and yeah, it's was a nightmare to write this and other chapters. I wanted a wee break since I've spent most of November like 98% writing To Miles, so I'm back XD

I dunno the more I have been writing To Miles the more I get interested in ranks, the navy and etc. So yeah, like writing small scenes of Alex wondering about Brian and writing regarding ranks, really.

The heartbroken women was a minor theme I galloped through my stories and I guess realizing my gender it dawned on me that my whole "write women differently" and how I was different was solely because I was male. I dunno, maybe I've been obsessed with NGE and Mishima's depiction of women which are rather destructive but were very eye-opening to me regarding myself. And in general this was written when I stumbled onto Valentine, Hince's ex back from the No Wow era and I took a liking of her, really. So that was the food for thought.

In general Mishima made me think a lot about genders and he greatly influenced me, so I guess, as anything I've ever thought of, thanks to Richey Edwards for listing him under favourite novels. 

I have derealization and now as I found out manic episodes so that just makes me lose and wonder what is real, when I know what is and the whole idea that you can fabricate memories goes through the latest written things.

As I wondered how would Jamie tell Alex such things, the way I asked was the way I made Alex write them down in the journal which is To Miles.

I don't recall many things I've written because it's so subconscious for me to write and then I scroll through and get amused by metaphors such as the dirt and cuticle.

The marines addition was because I had watched Full Metal Jacket with Callie and loved it, frankly, specifically the fact that they had snuck in a gay love line through slang dialogue was marvelous. And of course the first part with the training is the one which just I guess is a big eye opener, I'm sad that they didn't include the line "I'm proud of you" when the instructor gets shot, since that was included in the novel it based of. 

The imagery of bloodied mirror trails after me, as I really liked thinking of that one.

The ending is quite a coda, isn't it?

I hope you enjoyed it, there's many many written chapters so keep checking, I'm still doing one post a day:3

Thank you



To Miles 48

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