When I had finished my commitment to the USAF (Air Force) in early 1971 and returned to school, fortunately I recognized very quickly the futility of trying to communicate the experience of the previous four years – something I very much wanted to do. That realization settled in naturally and peacefully, and I was never bitter about it, only grateful to it for saving me considerable heartache.
Zen in that particular instance, I do maintain a realistic, bordering on cynical view of communicating experiences in general, which begs the question of why I’m still blogging, coming up on five years this month.
As to the current post, it also begs the question of why I’m setting you up for telling a melancholy tale attached to my recent trip to Crete. This is a story I wouldn’t attempt to relate to someone in my personal sphere, so I’ll be telling it to people I don’t even know. That makes sense, albeit a little crooked.
Read, if you don’t mind, A Series of Fortunate Events (click) to get up to speed. It only misstates one figure, the duration of my stay on Crete in 1968 and 1969.