Location: the waves, the ocean

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

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.


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