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Day eleven (again)

January 19, 2017

I did say at the beginning that the object of this exercise was to write something –anything – for at least fifteen minutes every morning, be that a blog entry, a rant, a letter or (woo hoo!) a piece of fiction.

Well, this morning my writing time went on a letter. Yes, a letter. (I believe I have mentioned that I like letters. And you have to send them to receive them.)

Today’s entry will therefore be fairly short.

A couple of interesting discoveries yesterday afternoon when I devoted some time to trying to figure out what the hell was in all the folders on my desktop (computer, not actual top of desk – no room for file folders there). I opened one, simply called ‘Anne’ and was a bit gobsmacked. Amongst other things, the folder contained all the email messages I’d sent to the Greenpeace Canada office in July 2000 when I was on board the Arctic Sunrise during the Stop Star Wars campaign. (I’m talking about the missile system, not the film series. Although god knows someone should have been campaigning to prevent The Phantom Menace and the revolting Jar Jar Binks ever being unleashed on the planet.)

I had no idea any of these messages were anywhere on my computer. This one is the uncensored basis of an article I subsequently wrote for the Times-Colonist:

“Well, they fucking did it – shot their bloody missile right over our heads, and I mean RIGHT over our bloody heads. It was an unbelievable sight. We saw it taking off from land, after a few seconds there was a red flash, a few moments later it began to spread out what looked like a cloud. The white cloud began to take the shape of an arrow, at the bottom of the white arrow an aquamarine trail began to form. And then it hit me, the fucking thing was lit up in the shape of a stealth bomber. It was, I admit, awesome. It was also fucking obscene. We saw the booster drop off, fall slowly into the water. Impossible to judge the distance at night and at sea, but it was certainly no more than five miles from us and I’d guess a lot closer. The four inflatables were out at the time, one closer to the booster than us. Needless to say, the booster falling initially scared the shit out of them.

“I’d say I can’t fucking believe they did, deliberately launched a missile over the heads of 23 people from 13 countries, but, of course, ‘they’ are the US military who pretty well do whatever the hell they want.

“Oh my God! We’ve just hear the fucking test may have failed. Oh, God, please let that be true. If the damned test, which everyone knew was rigged, failed anyway, then Star Wars has got to go on hold.

“Time for a beer.”

One of the other things in that folder – even more gobsmacking to discover – was the first six pages of a short story I have absolutely no recollection of ever beginning. According to the date it was saved, I’d been writing it in the summer of 2002. A complete blank, although, reading it yesterday, I realised my brain must have retained something. A few elements from this story resurfaced in Jessica’s diary entries in Rum Do.

Worth having another look at – perhaps even try to finish – this story? My initial reaction is no, but you should never say never.

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