Blogarama

h. dagger's adventures at sea

Name:
Location: the waves, the ocean

Hoist the sails, raise yer bloody goblets, ahoy & onward me laddies!

Friday, April 29, 2005

A Reading Tip for the Literary Pirate

Lads, me crew be knee-deep in bloodshed & war-waging, aye, but if ye yerself have a taste for the literary & a quieter moment ashore, me travels have stumbled me eye 'cross the works of some pompous bastards out of Hong Kong worth a glance, indeed. Consult me links above this posting. Me hook be soaked with the blood of a viking at present, aye, & gouging about intestinally. I'll leave ye with that & more to report in the morrow, laddies.

Alas, the Calm Post-Clamor

Well, laddies, we seem to've shut our viking opposition down into the pitiful & morbid silence that attends such crestfallen curs, & good riddance I say to them. Aye, 'twas beginnning to be a bit of a distraction, the constant yawping & barking of the little terriers becoming the nuisance in me ear that a mosquito might be ashore, aye, & as easily crushed, as easily forgotton. To hell with 'em, laddies, & the dragon-skiffs they rode in on! Now me compass points north, aye, true north at that, & me good eye fixes 'pon a small fleet from the coast of Morocco which, a little parrot whispers in me ear, carries 'board its vessels fine silvers & a rare collection of respirators, aye, whatsoever they be worth, but fear not, nay, for yer cap'n'll fetch a steady dollar for 'em I wager. Aye, I've a taste for warring now, as the northerners prompted in me a visceral reaction akin to the zincy salivatin' one undergoes prior to expelling one's repast in great heaves & hos. There be a precursor to all things, aye, be it prompt or trigger, insinuation or instinct, lads, & a cap'n 'as is duty to divine from such auguries the fate of 'is dear ship. Methinks I shall divine the finest rum this morn, & the trumpeteer to the deck, aye, for a ditty & a drink! We sail towards golden victory, laddies, but ere we get there, let us engage in Bacchic revelry such as ne'er the high seas've seen. Sound the trumpet! A jig, a jig, & a sip or a gulp, for the morn is long & it be early yet!

Thursday, April 28, 2005

The Curative & Restorative Properties of a Vitriolic Battle

Well, well, laddies, 'twould seem that some of our brethren to the north 'ave had their run-ins with Ragnar & the like & what began as exposition of fact has burgeoned into bloodthirsty & empassioned warring on all sides; or, aye, rather I should say, readiness for warring aboard me brigate & only readiness to spew specious claims aboard the wee skiffs of the viking lads. Brings a tear to me patch, it does, to even make the attempt to empathize with a wobbly-kneed pussilanimous little viking, whose rhetoric blooms early like a tulip but whose courage fades with the first threat of frost. 'Tis a sad state of affairs, I wager, to have such fear coursing through one's veins where once vitriol & blue blood did flow. 'Tis a fact of life, aye, a fact of the seas as firm as tide & current, that the pirate's spirit -- irrefragable, obstinate & voracious in its want -- will without fail triumph the will of would-be ne'erdogoods, & that the petty verbal indiscretions of such as the vikings, amounting as they do to so much incurable incontinence of phrasing, will in the end meet the very same violent opposition with which we have disposed already of so many formidable foes. I say talk on, ye scurvy cods, for yer talk be heard. When through the parted hair of yer red beards I see yer axes rise, aye, I will be there. When, from 'twixt the horns of yer helmet, I see yer arrows whirring through the air, I will be there to catch them in me teeth & turn them 'pon yer children. Aye, ye talk of viciousness & depravity & the bankruptcy of the human ethical core, but ye know nothing of me life nor of me crew nor of me maritime strategies, do ye? Once, when Elanore's soft hand held my bronzen hook in healthier times, I had me means of commiseratin.' Fled are those halcyon days, lads, & I warn ye, where there once beat a healthy heart there be now only the sutty pith of evil. Where there once sounded pleasant diddies in me ears there now rings only the toll & report of cannonfire. Where once all of life's majesty wept in me, there now stares from me insides the sullen grave glare of a man whose hand has played a part in such unthinkably drastic brutalities that human pathos is rendered obsolete. Aye, vikings, though ye talk, ye do not act, but in me actions, aye, have I talked. Review the records, boys, & be sure of what ye want, less the fates catch ye unguarded...

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Hjord & Whale Pizzle

These two laddies 'ave put in their two cents on the matter of me last post, & though spirited they be in defense of their people, a healthy spirit does little in the way of halting a dagger, aye. First I'd like to address their general inability to communicate with naught but some mythic beasts envisioned in their lonely times of privation. Aye, it sounds veritably like the mouths of Hjord & Whale Pizzle are filled to dehiscing with wee kitties or the like, though I wager to say a cheese puff or two would be more fitting men of such stature; aye, laddies, ye hear me, men so profuse in their rhetoric that ere a sentence comes to close twelve blows may've been rendered, aye, as inland industry mogul Jay-Z would have it, you know the type, loud as a motor bike, but wouldn't bust a grape in a fruit fight. Aye, & whatever the fuck that means precisely I leave to ye lads, but suffice it to say whilst such bloated ingrates jig atop some Valhalla-facsmilie picnic table, their hands groping copious quantities of mutton & their goblets sadly bespoiled with such a rank & indecorous & sissy liquid as mead, your cap'n will prevail on the high seas, & will hereby avow to make me own ship of vikings' fingernails meself! Second, aye, for this be exposition now lads, second we must weigh the merit of a viking ship. Whale Pizzle claimed it as much 'isself, as a simple oarsmen, that 'is own ship is naught but a slab carved to assume the countenence of a fierce dragon. If we pirates spent our time whittling every bit of driftwood floating by, making wee little skifs such as those of the vikings, aye, we too would be forced to cover our faces in beardhair & horn-helmet for shame of our creations! These be not vessels of the sea, nay, but the childsplay of some desparate fjorders. Third, ye vikings refer to yer cap'n truly as a buccanear, & to be clear on our historical monickers, aye, a buccanear patrols the caribbean, & while me ship has dipped its wick in those pleasant seas, me travles 'ave taken me far & wide across this great globe, aye, to its very ends, & believe ye vikings all that me brigateen has spat upon yer northern shores, & that if ye dig deep enough with yer nailless fingers ye might find a bone or two of yer dearly bygone. Aye, I've a scar or two from a viking, but those what gave me such wounds saw much worse. Yer fervent belief in yer obsolete gods, me viking laddies, cannot a battle win. Faith be not armor where a dagger is concerned. Any rapscallion can plunder ashore. It takes a true master of the seas to call 'isself a pirate, & a truer one at that to call 'isself a cap'n. I say unto thee, ye wee little scandinavian blowhards, if ye see me on the waves, beware. If ye see me from the shore, beware. If yer god Raglort looks down & whispers "Dagger be coming," beware. Ye've naught but a prayer between yerself & me blade.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

The Vikings

In these idle times after warring, when victory lays 'pon me lap ready for roughing up, aye, I oft entertain notions brought to me thinking by me maties. 'Tis part of the territory of cap'nhood, aye, to be democratic in one's cosmologies, methinks. And so 'tis that, alas, me pen shall finally fall 'pon one of the great subjects of debate o'er the years. A laddie we'll call Whale Pizzle, dealt with accordingly ye shall see, promoted the nonsense idea that a ship of vikings could take me ship of pirates without any considerable difficulty. To this, naturally, me says cockamamie. Vikings, noble though they be, keep their eyes focused 'pon Valhalla, they do, which gives them some disadvantage when warring because the afterlife they envision is comparable to the life of the pirate. When we wage war, we do so with the vision of pluner & spoil & drink & carnal relations set just past the horizon of battle, with our same blood flowing through our veins, aye, & the same souls awash in our blood. For a viking, I aver, all such visions are relegated to the realm of Valhalla, they are, & hence a viking will more readily give his life in battle, like a present in earnest, so he may sit at that great table & partake of the endless mutton, his goblet, finally, full. Aye, the spoils of Valhalla are the quotidian playthings of the pirate ship. There be merit in hoping after fanciful repast, but I say there be greater merit in enjoying it day in & day out, laddies. Vikings, they have some heart I merit, aye, but a little heart will not a ship sail, lads, nor a broadside endure. Our appetite is for this life, ere we be hanged 'pon the shore like the bonny prince. Aye, & our rosebuds be brandy & port & whiskey & rum, & our daffodils be those unspeakable regions of the deep! A pirate's life for me, for your captain aye, & all vikings be damned!

Monday, April 25, 2005

How a Weary Prisoner May Achieve 'is Freedom

Worried for yer cap'n, were ye lads? Aye, & a fine spot of it, & I am obliged in me appreciation. Yer worry took wings & sprung me from the hoosegow with relative ease. For any but yer cap'n, versed as he be in such matters, the confines of a deep-bellied hull can be daunting & spell utter ruination, aye, less ye be strong & persevere in the face of all shitstorming. Aye, it came to pass that 'pon the eve of our third day a fellow opened the hatch to distribute a meager ration of salted pork, but 'pon his hatch lifting me fist did collide most ferociously with his lateral malleolus, causing his ankle to buckle in splintered agony, aye, 'ponwhichtime me other hand brided him to his doom 'pon the dungeon floor, quietly freeing me crew & meself from our erstwhile despondent captivity. Once the deck was achieved, there was little in the way of trouble, as we hastily & forcefully dispatched of the cowardly vagrants that had outwitted us so recently. I for one recall me dagger, true & blazing sharp, grinning ear to ear with no less than four of me enemies & would-be captors. Aye, 'tis a violent life, this, but freedom from the captive belly of one'sown ship is easily achieved, & all is relative maties. So here I be again, posted atop me crowsnest, taking in me finest Spanish brandy, surveying the high seas again & spying me next battles, aye, for all is inertia, all unchanging, all a cannonball blasted towards fate, unyielding, unremitting, yer name spelled cold as day 'cross its blurring face & nought to do but watch it through to its end, lads.

Friday, April 22, 2005

Captive Though I Be...

Lads, aye, 'tis true, 'pon the evening of the long day passed, yer true cap'n, by some hefty broadsiding, blinding chest-hair revealing, & hook & saber combat, was captured. Here I sit, in me gloom & shame, humbled before another crew, me own lads destitute & remote in their countenence, & 'til it be morrow & our spirits fight against this tyranny, we shall be stowed here. Aye, make no mistake, lads, I've a penchant for mutiny, having served me time under errant cap'ns in the past, & ere long we'll come together to blast our way back to the crowsnest & a fine sip of brandy, aye. I've a plan, laddies, & come the savory touch of rosy-fingered Eos we'll plunge through the planks & take our ship back & steer these two-penny imposters o'erboard where the sharks will judge their merits, a one by one, afore they plummet to a watery tomb. How, I know ye be asking yerselves, how dear cap'n has it come to pass that Dagger, true to 'is sword, savage in deed & yet vaguely sympathetic & feeling in his general comportment, almost sensitive really, how has it come to pass that H. Dagger now sits bedeviled in the makeshift hoosegow of his own ship, his hook lacking luster, his fine silks spoiled with blood & vomit? Aye, an honest question deserves an honest answer. When such a transaction transpired, yer cap'n was in repose, his thoughts & dreams of heavy slumber painting lifescapes of the possibilities ashore; namely, lads, me parrot & meself, engaged in familial embrace, dreamt of Elanore in her toils while around us, above deck, footfall & small shouting gave way to a broadside that stirred me to wake. 'Pon me first glimpse of light me forehead was met with the blow of an argent blade, but Dagger be strong, & though me visage was red with me own bleeding, I stood to fight. With hook, with sword, with the shockingly precise aim of me parrot's beak, yer captain managed his way to the poop deck, leaving a trail of unwitting victims in me wake, aye. 'Pon the deck, though still I struggled at martial combat, aye, my good eye witnessed a thing of horror: me crew tied to me mast, bound & gagged. 'Twas just yer cap'n in the face of twenty foes, & though I'll be damned dead if I didn't kill ten of them, a swift crack of a pistol-butt severed from me me own dear consciousness, & alas, I awoke in me own hoosegow. That be the tale, laddies, but worser ones I've seen & heard, & lived through besides with but a scar & a venemous drive for revenge. Aye, the ship will be me own again, & 'pon its decks will me leg & peg count out me life's waltz, & in time, nay, in hours, lads, ye'll find me laughing o'er a bottle of the finest tawny. Give not of yer hope, for 'tis an unnecessary thing 'gainst an obdurate will such as this. I'll another dispatch send when me deck is again clear of this ignominy. Until then, be well with ye lads & lassies, & beware such pithy contrivances as this.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Where Goes the Time?

Lads, me pen be late on the page & me breath be short for now. I would not leave me crew without a word, though, if only so minute a one as this. Aye, I must say, no soapbox nor pulpit nor helm nor anything ere this day closes. Jes this simple arr.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Ship-shape Again

Top o' the mornin' to ye & ship-shape ye be, lads! I've enough with the dispiriting monologues of yore, aye I have, leastwise 'til it be morrow, & for now methinks it best to divulge some sundry details of adventures of a specific & recent nature, aye. Though it be me pleasure firstwise to encourage ye, whomsoever & wheresoever ye be, to return any & all gastronomically inclined balloons of any sort to the bo'son, who kindly assumed responsibility for the malodorous gift of the seas in the yesterday, aye. What bitter acrimony dehisced in such a contraption I know not, nor laddies is it my will to find out, for verily I say unto thee, Christ among us, such stench & bloated horridness I've naught come across since old Whiskey last changed 'is drawers. & by way of comment, too, I hereby enlist any honest pirate's aid in encouraging dear BeardBeard to lend 'is poor parrot a moment's peace. As I live, so shall I abide by the comforts of me bird, aye, but there comes a point, BeardBeard, when comfort gives way to a beastial cycle of desire. Watch & take heed, laddy, for yer bird may not yer matie be in the end. Aye, so concludes me salutations for the morn, & on to talk of rum & other glories. Some days back, in reference to me aureate chest hairs, methinks me posted a list of me spoils with an indefinite conclusion, as still we plundered & encountered anew. Aye, & salacious be the details, laddies. For such a wee man-of-war there be stowed in the fo'castle many a wondrous thing indeed. Among them, aye, we found: feathers of every color (though no birds proper, again I repeat) (to BeardBeard's dismay), a Sri Lankan newspaper with a front page story on sweeteners used in diet colas, a bounty of veritably pornographic pictures depicting gentlemen aport in conversation with various sea-mammals, twelve wooden kazoos, a model airplane minus the control, a complete series of Topps '87 baseball cards in excellent to mint condition, an entire box of scissors, cardboard cut-outs of snowflakes, several plastic tab frogs, a bazooka minus the ammunition, a goodly number of baboon skins & far too many bottles of martinelli's for christ's sake. I ask ye, & be honest, what type of pirate indulges in such libations? Where be the rum, lads, or the whiskey of Bristol, or the port of the Spanish main? Me gullet be dry, aye, but I'd sooner drink me piss than a draught of such a concoction. Blasted be these blokes we plundered, for in the end, we've naught but arcade trinkets! I say unto ye be careful of yer bounty, for if ye fight, know what 'tis you fight for, lads, lest ye should end up with a rubber chicken in one hand & a bottle of bubbly piss strapped about yer hook.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Wonder & a Fart Balloon

Lads I speak this morn of the obvious, of the laws of the pirate's life as inexorable as a spring squall or a northern gale at eventide or the clap. Aye, I speak of the roaming life of the pirate this morn, & of those many ties which loosely applied begin to falter under the wave's pressure. 'Tis hard tending dreams when yer warring at sea, me pen once wrote lads, & 'tis true, just as it be hard to be thar ashore when certain events transpire. Perhaps 'tis news to some, but me dear friend Crow's Pussy will be wed within the month, aye, but the lad has eschewed the life of the seas in favor of a landlocked life of the heart & hearth, & to him, eternally, I raise me goblet in cheers, aye. What then, dear cap'n, ye wonder, be the problem? That I be here, lads, & that 'tween his celebration & me own sits the horizon, endless, luring, as rare & impossible to set 'pon as Pizarro's fountain indeed. For the pirate lads the horizon always gapes its wide-toothed aureate grin at ye, aping & mocking & cursing yer course when all ye want is conviviality & a free shot of whiskey or two. Just when a cap'n readies himself to hang 'is mitre 'pon 'is hook, though, along from the leeward side of the ship comes some token of the sea's feeling justice. Aye, an albatross or a shiny yellow balloon emitting as acrimonious a stink as e'er a nose did suspire. There be such tokens all about us, aye, wee talismen of fortunes ahead. & so me brigate cuts her course, & the waves part & above them the clouds too in mirrored symmetry, & as sure as the gulls fade as the depths plumb lower, a pirate can be sure of the next bounty in spite of 'is shorewards regrets. We be but providers, aye, under the compass of providence, & bending outside of our hearts we find ourselves bound to the sea. On the one hand, aye, 'tis rough to be reft asunder as such. On the other hook, though, there be great pleasure & pride in a pirate's wayward course. Perhaps one day ye'll find me mitre hung, but methinks rather I'd see it afloat above me as me sinks after a battle lost. 'Tisn't for all, this life, nay, but for a captain such as Dagger himself, it be the only life. & now, lads & lassies alike, raise yer goblets fer Crow's Pussy & his pending merriment!

Monday, April 18, 2005

Tempestuous Day Ahead

Though it be a seamless pageant 'pon the seas, the night still reeves asunder the long hours fo the day, & from one passing week to the next a certain color drops o'er the days. Aye, one day ye be gay & merry, & the next ye be soaked in a sudden blackness like a chimney sweep ashore, aye. & then lads, there come weeks that build into eras of themselves, besotten as they be with questionable affairs & the like, besmirched with time's very oddities, & beset by calamnity 'pon all sides like a cruel & unjust gale. Methinks this week shall see some turmoil 'board me ship, aye, I feel it in me bones like the pulse of a steam-engine in the tracks, or so I have been told. A vex 'pon our foes, then, that foreboding & ire should rise in our blood! Lads, methinks the days be wasted with the attendant stress of trivialities. Aye, the true business of living & dying & all things 'tween should better occupy me thoughts than those complexities of the desk that a captain's post requires. When me sits me calicoed arse down to look o'er me papers methinks, Dagger, what've ye become? I see naught but frustration & exhaustion & toil under an endless, futile appointment. Shouldn't me peg be firm in the planks? Shouldn't me sword be drawn? Aye, shouldn't I feel the pounding golden sun 'pon me brow as me eye streches o'er the horizon for dint of sighted land? Let me travails be meaningful, aye, & me stresses have purpose, for if me spirit must bend about the trivial, than so shall it break! A captive to such mundacity I'll be no more, laddies! I'll no more a'rowing that Stygian river!

Friday, April 15, 2005

Me Chest Hairs, Fine & Copious

Aye, indeed, dear poster, they be of fine silky gold, me chest hairs, & burst forth from me loose calico like an aureate phoenix, 'tis true. When, on certain morns, the sun slants just so & tinges me coppery bloom like dew fresh 'pon a daffodil, aye, 'tis a sight to behold, 'tis. Little known fact about yer dear captain, that just as certain battles 'pon the soil have involved the prestidigitation of mirrors, thrown sand or, as 'twas in Waco I hear, loud & hideous screeching, so 'pon the seas can a pirate employ the full faculty of his chest hairs, if their gleam be bright enough to blind a foe. Aye, last week as a matter of fact me ship came upon a small brigateen with naught but seven crew members, & ere we even resorted to a swift broadside I plucked me buttons & showed me golden bouquet & in that light 'twas like a devouring fire. Surrender, needless to say, was immediate. Among the spoils collected, me crew & I encountered the following:

1. Two treasure chests, the first veritably dehiscing with fine fashioned golden napkin holders, while the second was filled solely with chocolate "money" wrapped in golden paper.
2. A shrunken head.
3. Three muskets of antebellum Kentucky, along with a modern AK-47 & a paring knife.
4. The hoof of a mule carved into a cofee mug of sorts with an inscription of "World's Best Granddad."
5. A bounty of fine Indonesian silks.
6. A parrot cage remarkably decorated with the finest of Hasbro brand Barbie products.
7. No parrots whatsoever.
8. Several maps of Poghasset Bay & the surrounding environs.
9. A megaphone.
10. Costumes of a varied & scandalous sort, including, but not limited to, bovine, feline & canine full-body suits begarbed in second-rate hot pink lingerie. Curious.
11. Several lurid lithographs of mermaids in various & compromising states of repose.

Aye, there was more, but the list still be in the making as we plunder on. Yer cap'n will be sure to illuminate the freakish leanings of his captives o'er time, every one aye indeed. Until then, be off with ye & be swift with it.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Ahoy!

Ahoy there laddies, aye we sail on do we not? Aye, there be drought, there be famine, there be warring &, aye, salmon (fer it rhymes, thar, see?), there be folly & fighting & mates reuniting & song in the air & rum drunk with care. Aye, 'tis a good life, me laddies. I've been tight-lipped I have about certain of me misadventures, leaving the very moondark cloak of secrecy o'er me days fer respect of me endeavors, aye, ye see? 'Tis a matter of some delicacy, disclosing the intricacies of a pirate's course, when aye, that pirate would do well to keep his lips sown tight & plod on towards 'is bounty. History though be a different matter, & as sure as we sit 'ere this morn ye can bet yer good eyes lads that there will be another Louis Stevenson & that laddy will choose the most afeared & savage of the modern humanist pirates for the topic of 'is novel, & who do ye think that be lads? Aye, I inspire black fear in the hearts of men, but me songs & me general comportment when about me cabin be riddled with basic human sympathies. Aye, a sensitive pirate am I, & not given easily to divulge the means by which others come to suffer under the threat of me scythe. Leastwise, I 'aven't seen anyone haver to ask yers truly of his misadventures by name, no. Ye've plenty of opportunity, fer as this a journal be it also is a forum for setting the record straight with me particular life of piracy. Aye, call it a historical document lads, & consider me yer docent, available fer questions should they arise. Aye, fer instance, ye may wonder how a pirate abides by the old rule of the seas when around him so much has changed? Or, & among ye the scoundrels I mean here, ye may wonder at the curious intimacies afforded by mermaids & other such creatures of the sea, aye. I've answers, lads, like me chests have bits of fine gold. What ye needs to understand is that as a security measure, aye, I cannot relay me course or compass, nor the particulates of me strategies that might afford a future foe some slight advantage. Nay, me secrets be mine own, but the tales of the sea, they be for all to hear. Aye, & hear them ye shall, for the sea's song is endless, laddies, endless indeed.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Long Since

A cheers to me chappie along the California Main, whose post ye see above all of me garbled warblings, aye, the Exiled Midwesterner himself indeed. & while the goblets be bright & raised on high let us drink to Long Since, aye, whose mutton chops transcend the biped designation what good god has put 'pon him. Aye, this morn' we drink for all of our maties, claimed by scurvy aye or alive & thriving 'pon the azure waves! We drink to Crow's Pussy as he walks the plank in jest & to the sorry young laddies what've breached that cruel fate, aye, & for the lassies a'port & for me Elanore ashore. There be much cause for drink, lads, if it be convivial & spirited as 'tis this morn. Me Elanore furnished yer true cap'n with a fine musical gift this year, aye, & his gratitude like the fabled biblical cup or the depth of me treasure chests runneth over. I've said before what this 'ere blog's done to me, aye, made a preacher of a pirate, but believe ye me laddies I preach of piracy & naught else but its dear lessons. If they be lofty, then lofty they be, & likewise if the devil dances 'pon their rickety foundations then the devil's handiwork they be, for here on the high seas we see neither god nor devil nor messenger between but the sole sickly spirit of man. & if 'is lessons aren't enough for ye, if man's depravity & soul & gratitude & mirth isn't enough, if the earth & sea have not given unto ye some small wonder, then yer life merits a revision, lads. Aye, wonder there is a plenty, & awe & slackjawing besides, & in the bottle or out, a pirate can see it swiftly & pounce 'pon it like a cheetah might a small & sickly mammal of the Sahara. Aye, agape is the world & ripe its possibilities lads, & I must to pounce!

Monday, April 11, 2005

The Trumpet Sounds Another Year

Aye me lads & lassies, yer captain's calendar turns today, ere the sun sets o'er those distant hills. The pages of me journals grow deeper & the more yellow with time & tide & such, & the years now pass along with their plaintive sigh, familiar little devils aye. 'Tis a time of reflection, aye, the birth-day of a cap'n, a time to pace the forecastle & spy yer spoils, a time to peek sunward at the flowing majesty of yer jolly roger, a time to indulge in the warm & comforting company of the sea-mammal, aye. A good year it has been me lads, with many a trial, many a tribulation, many a battle fought while the dying red sun warred against the paledark sky. But here I be, in one piece mainly, me good leg still good, me peg on tight, & me parrot patched & blessed congenitally with a fair voice for song. Me days have been tempered with many things, aye laddies, & me travels 'ave taken me ship to ports methought outside the maps. I have been fortune's pawn, aye to be sure, but fortune 'as played her game with unerring tenacity of pursuit, & though I be scarred & sunburnt & me list of complaints be considerable, me list of details meriting gratitude be more ample, aye. 'Tis a good life, the life of the pirate, save for when it is bad, at which times, it can only be described as being bad (except at the tail end, when it again appears good). Aye, 'twixt the two the whole gammit of being, lads. Birth-days like bookends around our formidable pursuits do wrap. I would only that some kind lad would ferry me Elanore to me here & stop her hands a'toiling in that dungeon of a distillery. I would too that she brought some fine whiskey & a draught or two of Spanish port & tawny, for me gullet be dry this morn. Lads, let it be a day of wishes, aye, & in the morrow we'll weigh our hopes & our realities & find some balance. I will to me cabin for a sip of morning rum, aye, to me birth-day!

Friday, April 08, 2005

The BeardBeard Charitable Foundation

Our dear mate of the sea, poor piteous BeardBeard, has developed a bit of an aggressive fondness for 'is dirty whoring parrot, so it would seem, aye, to yer captain. Aye, BeardBeard, the idle times wile away at ye, don't they, & the hours stretch taut yer very fortitude like old Rogers drawn & quartered. & so it has come to pass that in yer quiet moments, alone in yer cabin, aye, you've taken to adornin' yer parrot in any number of harlot accoutrements, in effect making of her a feathered Jezebel of the wide seas, but with a beak & that, aye. & while, to be sure, I understand the compulsion to help along yer parrot, as mine is patched indeed & sports a festive blue bandana atop its crown, perhaps the dress-up has effectively minimalized yer aptitude aboard me planks? Aye, ye say, but what of Calico Jack? What of the fine Indonesian silks of old Bartholomew Rogers? What of the freedoms of piracy & indeed the inherent foppery of a pirate's garb? There be some merit there lads, but to adorn yer beloved parrot in the rouges & lipsticks of a lady-of-the-port is to inhibit the parrot's natural ease, aye, & to make some mockery of an institution. Ye worry me, BeardBeard, for yer insouciance aboard me brigate. Ye shall cast o'erboard yer make-up kit, though the tutu dresses may remain, aye.
As for the rest of ye let it be a lesson. Me eye for the philosophy of the waves is rendered opaque but fer today me lads & I've naught to say that would verily shiver yer timbers. Me feels the familiar fire within me & thinks a draught of rum & a broadside o'er some wee brigateer would do me right, aye. I'll to the mast-top for a looksy & a tip o' the cap.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Wave & Shore

Aye me lads I bid ye good mornin, though the skies be grey & the rain be tappin' upon me cabin. Here aboard me brigate the planks draw out in slick patterns & beneath our feet & pegs we feel something substantial, aye. Days though come & pass, & from time to time a pirate feels a bit lost, a bit like the speck on all the swirling seas that he truly be. A man'll give 'imself entire to the pull of the tide, to the sway of a gale, to the rocking of the boat as it cuts the sea in two. Aye, at times the thoughts they slow & fade as a bygone eddy & the sunken eye will fix 'pon a sail & ne'er waver, but glare thoughtless at the vast blank whole of the thing. As easy as 'tis to be spirited, 'tis as simple a thing to bow one's head & let fate take ye where she will. A pirate must think 'pon such things lads, fer the idle time is great, & the pull & pressure of possibility is ne'er too far a bay. Life's riches, for they be just that lads, life's riches are rendered from its blankness, from its erstwhile sadness like a calf from its cryin' mother. Aye, happiness is born of sadness, lads, so when a storm afronts ye & yer eyes be fixed upon the looming grey blankness, let yerself know that it be natural, that it be necessary, that no mirth is fixed nor sorrow nor hope. Life will take ye where she wants, lads, & one man can tear at it all he wants with hook & dagger & teeth, but ere long the sea will speak her peace as we say. Aye, some dampness draws o'er me mood this morn, & the skies be cold & grey. Me temper seems a loaded cannon & me crew would do well to keep its bloody distance ere one of 'em'll sing the whalesong from the other side of the sheen. I think of Longsince at moments like these, aye I do, fer he is an edifice in the face of a gust. Aye, we should the boulder be that parts the flowing water, but time conspires to let us waver & falter, laddies, & some morns it pisses 'pon our miter caps. So she sings, the sea, & what is a simple pirate to do?

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Tide Idle Cabin

Aye I've a compulsion here laddies, it is so, to spew forth from this pulpit 'pon the waves, for 'ere there are none what can naysay less they'd take the long walk down the plank, aye. It ne'er was in me character to wax on as me seems to of late, but an idle tide & no sighted boats will stir in a man such impulses as otherwise would appear quite rare indeed I venture, aye I do. I've little to say other than that I want to say so much, but 'tis a captain's duty to bear with 'is crew & guide their own particular possession by idle ghosts. We will to the fo'ecastle for a sharp round of shuffleboard, aye, & a sip of African rum if it be our druthers, which, verily, it be. & for further entertainment we'll dangle a captive o'er starboard & let the dolphins piss upon 'im as they are want to do. We'll render the seaday ripe with laughter, aye, & song too that will bid the whales near & call our enemies to our revelry, for our eyes be looking to war, what good eyes we have among us. Me parrot patched & green aye she sings of better days, but in the lull & craze of idleness there is great possibility. To starboard turn, for the dolphins come!

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Little Ditties

Laddies & lasses I bid ye a fine fond how do ye do? On principle I have discoverd many a thing in my long years on the sea; namely, that the soul of man is suspect. Aye, the very core of yer coworkers & all those ye meet in the course of yer useless hours can be black as the Arctic Circle o'er a winter's darkspell, & what can ye do but endure & suffer through it. What do ye know of it, captain, ye may well be askin' yerselves, yer fingernails scraping the thought o'er yer noggins like jelly o'er burnt toast aye, & verily I say unto ye I know a little of it. The wind speaks of such places, wherein yer coworkers aren't the upright laddies like Whiskey & Crow's Pussy & Mulebeard, nay, they be of a different ilk altogether & one that as me eyes see it drives after meaninglessness like the old Spanish gentleman after the windmill. Aye, fer a draught of prosperity they'll tell ye, or for the nectar of worldly success, but 'ave ye given pause to think, if it's worldly success yer after, why aren't ye aboard me ship? We plunder, aye, & pillage & take what we see & ere the day is done we've a pretty booty stashed away & some to give beside. Aye, word spreads o'er the waves like a dread gale & though we be primitive in the eye of many, we know of the lands that touch our oceans. Aye, I know it well, for me Elanore labors still in her father's whiskey distillery, aye, her sweat pouring forth & her spirit crushing slowly like so many ashore. This life to which ye consign yerselves, aye you, what of it? For all the warring & mutineering & bloody turmoil of the seas at least me lungs pull in the briny musk of seabreeze. Me freedom looks like bondage to ye, like an anachronism or some manacle to a foregone past, but I assure ye this world thrives laddies & lassies, & me within it. I would to the shore, & one day, when me bones prove brittle, I'll dock & stay & spell out the letters & sip of the same golden goblet each morn. Until then though I war on & naught but tide & hellweather may pull me down. I'll sing on me lads, aye, I'll sing of the Pirate's Dream, of the bounteous episodes yet to unfurl, of the lofty banner of Dagger & 'is unafeared crew as we sail the aureate seas. Sound the trumpet, for onward shall we sail, & believe you me laddies & lassies, "we'll drink & sing of the day when the ship pulls into bay, where the ladies do where gold berets in their hair & their laughter sounds pleasant & gay. " Such was a tune me pen writ some months back & such is the Pirate's Dream. Sing it, laddies & lassies alike, when around ye, in that fabled place called the "office," yer peers display the worth & weight of tardark chips of coal. There is glory to be had elsewhere, aye, so let elsewhere be yer home.

Monday, April 04, 2005

Cutlass & Compass

Chrissake this 'ere blog is a devil to post, given as she be to quick erasure. How many words I've seen writ only to dash & dissipate against the ether like so many cresting waves o'er the hull. Aye, laddies, with every passing day I write again, & with every passing faithful & dutiful logging of my adventure, the ether swallows it up & says me ship can sail no more. Though daunted, though privy to the very depravations of man, though tripped up & halted I will ne'er cease with me missives. Tall & short laddies I wrote a tid about dear Job, that old saint of the sea what found himself swallowed whole by the great leviathan. Ere long, swimming & cohabitating as he was with bile & half-rendered fishheads & the sputum & spleen of the beast whose mighty ribcage kept him bodily manacled, old Job came to it: cutlass or compass, laddies. Do ye rely on yer plots & reason or do ye fight through the bloody thing tooth & nail? When the seafog is thick with cannon's report & the black smoke encircles ye laddies, do ye pull the compass from yer breeches & plot a course? Just yesterday I recall upon seizing a man-of-war me came upon many fine trinkets aye, 'tween the calico & miniature figurines & wheat thins me bounty was plentiful, & amidst the shouting & flailing & fists a'flying do ye think I gave pause to consider me spoils? & later, when the white of the captives eyes shown grand & glowing under the stark seamoon, their fear a palpable thing, do ye think that yer merciful captain, conversely, resorted again to the cutlass that had guided the day? 'Twixt the two a laddie must rip through his days, either by hook or tooth or map or order. The years are ne'er comparable, laddies, & the sameness of life is the ease of expectation, nothing more. Aye, I preach, but I preach that ye render yer life entire, by god, & by compass & god willing by cutlass.