March 09, 2005
Ghosts in the Machine
...ghost swamp
The hanging moss was a white, ghostly grey, hanging down on a gloom clouded day, creating a bit of hazy sureality.
The water was organic, blackish, opaque. Hidden mystery. Primordial, reptilian swirls of ancient fears and urges. It oozes into life as unexpected illusionary chains, like grey moss tangled around your neck. Part of me wants to wade through it deeply, get a different picture, a different perspective. Wash away the chains holding me teathered to concrete walkways, and take a better shot at it all. The ghosts of dragons lay deep. Most people never even get a glimpse of them. How do you tame what you cannot see? Listen for ghosts whispering.
...Rolling and Tumbling. Swimming free. Swamps feed. Don't gather moss.
(swamp - Wilmington, NC)
Posted by Ocean at 04:31 PM | Permalink | | Comments (0)
February 25, 2005
Three sheets
'3' - sheets... The wind hit at dawn like a cold slap in the face. The plastic rain bucket had been filling in the grey drizzle, and I drank it in. I trimmed the sails, and set a coarse for due west, tacking towards the sun's setting line. People always say "Go west, young man!". And so I did. I can sail this boat better than anyone. With a bit of determination, she should take me quite far in a week.Her black hull is slicing through the dark blue-black troughs and white foam crests, like sharpened skates smoothing broken ice. The spray of the bow, and the brightening shards of new but still hazy light, turn the hull to a reflective silver. I'm shining again. The sea is opaque in its tossed frenzy. The tan sails are full, bloated, pushing me on. Right on point, now. Keep my eyes straight ahead, keep the sails trimmed. Maybe just a moment for some hot instant coffee. I can still remember the aroma, sweet fresh-brewed hazelnut hot coffee, following me into a new day, long ago. No, no time now. Just enough to mix some cold instant crystals in a tin cup, grab a piece of fish jerky, and maybe a second to dry the spray out of my eyes. There'll be time for hot coffee later.
I'm running fast now, the backing wind almost astern. I'm pushing it. The cold metallic mast is shivering, groaning from the strain. Behind me, the sky darkens with violent energy. The diffuse foggy greys have grown into walls of ominous black, bearing down in chase. Its coming on fast. I trim the winds again, and pick up a knot or two. She's bucking, but she'll hold together. When the hell did this happen? I am still on course, dead on. I won't loose her again. I can still make out the sun, and I'm staring it down. I can make it, I can reach for the sun. A little faster, a little faster. Just stay on track.
That nagging feeling comes again like the approaching gale. That damn nagging. It turns me around. Fuck, its got me, I cannot out run it. The sails are soaked to deep dark brown, the hull is blackened in the malestrom. Even the whipping white froth is darkened. I can't tell ship from sea. Where the hell am I? No choice. Listen. Listen to her screaming. Listen to her rage. The sea is telling me to hove to, rest the bow into the wind. I pull in a few reefs - too much sail out. Batten the hatches. Throw the storm anchor to slow the slides. Strap in the safety harness.
Follow the compass. Stay out of my way. I'm the captain. Let's ride.
Posted by Ocean at 06:09 AM | Permalink | | Comments (0)
Dead Calm
Four hundred and 30 miles out when the gale started blowing. The small sloop was blown off course, out past the gulf. The blow was too strong for too long, I couldn't hold her. Sitting here now, I miss that struggle. She sits, black hull in still flat waters. Her tan sails hang limp, useless except for visual relief from the endless blue of sea and sky. Dead calm.Fresh water is very low. I almost succumbed to a cup of sea water yesterday. Not desperate yet, but I must resist at all cost. It may seem to quench thirst, but it is delerious poison. It does not replenish. Each morning's dew is barely sustaining. But the stillness of the blue is so inviting.
This boat becomes very restrictive when out on the ocean alone and idle. When you are trapped in dead calm, sooner or later, rain clouds will come blowing their wet breath over the horizon. But in the waiting, it becomes a prison cell, locked in by endless unreachable horizon. And the blue calm becomes more inviting, as if it could quench my dry thirsty mind.
I should pray for wind and rain. Commune with the flesh and blood of a fish. But no, it seems like there haven't been fish out here for thousands of years now. Man's doing. Besides, I have no need for a crucifix to tell me I bear my own cross. Perhaps there still are schools, out of sight, down a bit deeper than the sun's rays penetrate. Maybe there is sustenance there in the depths. The dead canvas draped on the mast rigging is all I see. Maybe the key is behind my own blue eyes. Again the blue invites me.
An old rope hammock is a good way to past the time, swaying myself in the cool shade of the drooping mainsail. The creaking cry of the rope keeps a slow rythm, lulling me. Its comfortable without the constant pitching from the waves and the salt water spray that burns my eyes. Thats not true, I'm withering away out here. My sea-legs waste with atrophy, in desparate need of movement, exercise. My heart needs to beat this thick blood. Slowly, each day, death comes closer. I should swim. But I know there are some big dark shadows lurking around down there. They seem to follow the boat. And I don't want to move. The hammock is my straight jacket. Something so inviting, and so full of resistance. Thirsty now.
Where is the wind? Just a gentle breeze to fill the canvas. A brush stroke pointing home. Too much damn time out here. Too much time. Too thirsty. Too dry.
I have a mask and a spear somwhere under the berth. I can dive in and look around a bit. Maybe find some fish. Grab the rudder to stay close to the boat and kick, get some blood into my legs while gazing into the deep invitation.
Tomorrow. Tonight I will listen to the unknown sounds that sing to me from below, that echo off the wooden planks, and send my mind reverberating promises of refreshing rain. Let it wash away the encrusted salt, so I can see clearly back into blue, and sail on again, with a fresh wind - the breath of life, to distant, destined shores where I was born. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow...
~~~
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