Blogarama

h. dagger's adventures at sea

Name:
Location: the waves, the ocean

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

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Yours, H. Dagger

Lads & maties alike, there be some confusion of late o'er the verity of me identity & methinks it prudent both for yer cap'n to speak to it & for naysayers to leave well enough alone, lest they should find themselves confronted bodily with me identity itself, brandishing, as it is prone to do, an armada of variously sharpened utensils at the ready for skin-spelunking. Aye, so here it be, laddies: me name is Henry Dagger. Aye, it be that simple. There be plenty of ontological & phenomenological quandaries that attend to me being, aye, as for all, & me history be a blurry patchwork of half-recalled moments, but be assured lads, as long as blood has pulsed through me veins, since infancy aye, yer cap'n has been asea, wond'ring after his own dubious origins. Incredulous? Yer cap'n could give a flying fuck, lads, at yer incredulity, & be assured if ye stand before me slack-jawed asking me for proof of identification me hook'll provide what ye need. So be off with ye & tend to more important matters, lads, for a cap'n wavers not in his word.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

The Moon, the Pale Sickle

Laddies, I bid ye each the tip o' me cap, for the morn be fresh, aye, & methinks me tastes bounty in the air. For a healthy bout there, lads, me spirit seemed delfated by ease of conquest, for what me crew began in northern climes with the paltry little vikings we continued through to the present, aye, in the form of easy victory. Fighting a viking is akin to fighting an inflatable doll, lads, such is the pussilanimous stance of their defensive entrenchment. Aye, they be carrion, little more, & here in equatorial waters me finds the same lackluster challenges, aye, & as such me sails turn northernly & let the winds blow me where they will, lads! Me sword bares only the slightest red sheen & me peg sports no new licks, maties, & belowdecks the cards & rum can only do so much ere mutiny must rise of the unbearded young knaves. Let them come, for something to do, for Dagger's done away with mutinies afore, aye, single-handed & single-hooked, & seen his crew's blood repaint me decks. There be strange currency in new foreboding, lads, 'twixt the frenetic sense of a burning filament when mirth interweaves itself with expectation & the sense of dread that washes o'er a swashbuckler on the eve of grand warring. Aye, there be a taxonomy entire to anticipation, lads, & one with which ye'd do well to familiarize yerselves, if e'er yer intentions plot to take ye seawards. Know ye what to expect, aye, & ye've a peg up on yer foes. Also, me recommends a fine jolly roger the likes ofwhich are foreign to the eyes of rivals & friends alike, in the spirit of Blackbeard's goblet-clutching skeleton, lads. Steady yer ensigns, aye, & know ye yer currents, but ultimately lads if ye be a pirate ye know it from yer bloody sobbing birth, & piss on ye for it, for the life oscillates wildly, lads. If ye take unto the seas be ye weary of Dagger, but hone yer abilities in the northern waters, where the vikings sit in fragile rows like dead & dying otters, ready for the sabre.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Solitude, the Bloody Kind

Aye, it dawned on me last night, laddies, as me rum wet me whistle for the better part of the eventide, that me solitude may 'rise of me habit of slaying & plundering. Methinks it an obvious correlation, but in the abstract, lads, ye know me to be a sensitive pirate, aye, whose very pen & parrot have helped to write a ballad or two for me Elanore. Me woes be deep & grave, aye, & though me life be one demandin' of a certain detachment, methinks it fair to wonder after the place of me sensitivity. Methinks perhaps a performance of me diddies may be in order soon, for which I must to port. That, lads, or methinks me hook must separate an eye from a socket soon.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

A Solitary Pirate

Lads, me mind goes to wondering oft when the dull dusk sets 'pon us, aye, & me sight be bleary & blurred from rum & battle. Methinks it a simple enough fact that a pirate, aye, more so than many, leads a solitary life. Aye, I've a crew, but in the blink of yer good eye ye may find one of 'em in the steely jaws of the white shark, lads, for naught but a whisper of mutiny. Aye, yer cap'n has seen 'is own men tied bodily to the mast for flogging for less than coveting a fine mutton. Methinks me unfettered life a boon, maties, & me finds in the unmanacled wrist the very spirit of possibility, aye. Though me concerns go with me Elanore ashore, bless her indeed, me feels often the cold pallor of lneliness atop me crow's nest, lads, when me good eye spies the broad expanse of blue beyond. What else be there for a pirate but sea & war? What else but rum & port, pirate & patch? 'Tis a simple life carved of simple means, to be sure laddies, fought for tooth & nail. Me feels a certain exhilaration when me scabbard empties & me blade plunges through the torso of a rival, aye, & me blood boils when me hook renders another incapacitated, but they be transient thrills, lads. Is there, me wonders, hope for a pirate, that a fine cap'n might couple with permanence in some way? Maties, a pirate's life be not for all, nay, & nary a good man will ye see 'top the cresting waves, for here they be naught of nobility nor integrity nor honor nor pride. It be a savage trade, lads, & the blood flows liberally 'twixt me toes in every instant of combat, the decks besmirched, soiled & slick with it. There be little honor in me profession, laddies, 'tis true, but there be a shining & brilliant security in it, aye, that a cap'n may preserve 'is legacy long beyond 'is years. Toil, toil, & in the end ye find yer name become an edifice where yer deeds've sunk in yer wake, unrecallable, inviolate, forgotten or coopted. Lads, we own not our lives, me tells ye, but we own our names, aye, & the rest, well, it gives a cap'n cause to think.

Monday, May 23, 2005

Long Has It Been

Long indeed, laddies, since last me pen touched me parchment, but for the mild exception of self-defense on another blog, aye, but me travels have rendered me refreshed & exhausted both lads, if ye can such a thing fathom. Me crew & the good fortune of tide & current conspired to put me ship in the baths of equatorial waters, lads, where the plunder be brilliant & the sheen of the argent blade shines forth like the savage dentistry of the spanish pirates of yore, aye. Me hull be brimming, lads, with the various & sundry items me cannons did encourage, & among the items me crew & I came upon:
1. a velvet bag full of tacks
2. an inflatable human doll adorned in such a maner that one is led to believe it is meant to resemble Ronald McDonald
3. yet another shrunken head, lads
4. one dozen Viking helmets in various states of disrepair
5. one dozen fake beards
6. one jar, spirit gum
7. the goblet commisioned by Louis XIV for his son's baptism
8. thirteen cases of coconut rum
9. three fine cockatoos of fine plumage & well-cut jib
10. a yellow balloon with the word "flatulence" written upon it in black marker
11. a black marker
12. calico eye patches (2)
13. an ivory-cut pegleg which me crew shall shape to fit
Aye, the bounty exceeds the space of me memory lads, but suffice it to know I'll divulge as me mind unfurls from this long trip. The battling be easy, the warring but a minute gesture, lads, compared to the savagery me eye has seen. These be poncies, equator-hugging lads with nary a clue of far shores & farther battles. The spoils they come with naught but a demand or two, lads, & the slap of the blade across the face of the rival captain.
More to come on it, lads, for now me attention turns to me plunder.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Hush, Laddies, a Battle Soon Shall Wage

Aye, 'tis true, lads, yer cap'n has divulged too much of 'is present course & must under the radar hide 'isself until the moment be ripe for plunder. Methinks, maties, that me aim shall be accomplished within eleven days, aye, which means nary a word nor whisper from this blog for such time as shall be necessary to perform me piratical function, aye. Ye understand, as they say, cloak & dagger, aye, well here we be in earnest & yer cap'n benefits from such covert measures from time to time. I'll report post-warring with full inventory & detail. 'Til then, laddies, be off with ye & mind ye not a word of me travels to any stranger unto ye, or me argent blade'll cut short yer petulant ways, lads, aye, from ear to cowering ear.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Where Now the Pageantry

Lads, 'tis a changing world to be sure when me ears be inundated by the petty peskering questions of femme pirates, aye, what claim their biggest woe be a wrinkled shirt aye or a stain 'pon their trousers. Perhaps yer cap'n misled ye, ye mistletoed fairies, by extolling the modern age, but be assured lads that if me eye spots 'pon ye o'er the high seas & me sees yer nails painted cherries & yer shirts devoid of wrinkle, aye, ye'll another worry far greater to heave 'pon yer backs, ye will. I am no usher nor docent nor psychologist of the seas, laddies, & if ye attempt to use yer cap'n in this regard again, hell will fall 'pon ye with all of its fiery tumult, aye, & a maelstrom of hellfire & argent blade will storm about yer deck until ye be but a bag of bones sinking, sinking through the vast blue sea, left & o'erlooked by such as the manatee & whaleshark, aye, who'd sooner scavenge the hair off a dead man's ass than pick at yer feeble brittle bones, lads. Methinks me point is made.
Here we be, then, laddies, in the southern climes, aye, & a might good it does a cap'n to wash viking blood off 'is hands (metaphorically me speaks, ye poncies) in the touch of Eos. Me feels at me leisure, aye, & even battle seems a piece the easier, as thar be something in the temperment of islanders that renders their bounties ripe for plunder. Aye, we've many a spoil come upon, in quiet cove or in raging storm. Dear Whiskey lost a testicle to a jellyfish in an unfortunate turn, he did, whilst Longsince fashioned a snorkel of sorts out of gun barrels in order to make convivial with local mermaids, aye. Yer cap'n sips 'pon a concoction plundered West in Jamaica, he does, & a mighty potent elixir it seems to be, laddies. A healthy portion of our last attack reaped only cocktail umbrellas, jars of olive & cherry, & flukes tall & fragile. 'Tis a hazard of piracy in this era of pandering to tourists, aye. Where once the culture fluorished with gilded golden booty, now it be ripe only with plastic miniature sword & cheap Mexican straw hats. Aye, long have I been at sea, lads, & many changes me eye has focused 'pon, the better & the worse alike, & smaller the world seems to shrink with e'ery passing minute, lads, to me chagrin. The closer I be forced to get to these travelling nancies, the more methinks 'pon the golden era of yore, aye, when Rogers & Blackbeard & the like, all positively nuns by me modern bearing, mind ye, but when the likes of the infamous pirates sailed & sallied along where they chose with only the British 'pon their heels. Aye, a truer time 'twas, an era of piracy's downy innocence, lads. Where be we now but in an era of surfaces? Where be the true pirates when me peers be concerned with a wrinkle? & where be the true glory in a booty of plastic swords? Me head is hung low this morn, lads, & methinks it best to confide in me drink & me parrot ere I betray my savagery.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Ye Pesky Womenfolk

Ye laddies behave like schoolgirls, ye do, aye, with all yer infernal hygenic questions. What be I to ye lads, another Dear Abby? Me needs be those of a pirate for chirssake, & me habits, hygenically & otherwise, be me own business & the stuff of decades asea. Ye ask of stains & wrinkles & the proper leeward application of mascaras & I tell ye life goes on, maties, & me services consist not of answering to the finnicky & obsessively cosmetic queries of pansies posing as pirates! Be off with ye or me sword shall render swift answers! Don't ye laddies understand that pirates we be, & as pirates, it be our duty, aye, to traverse the high seas in toil & turmoil, in storm & stress, until it be our time for looting & plundering, until our glory rises aye like a phoenix from the very pith of man? We be not invested in coming off as a careful & cleanly bunch, nay, though we may know a secret or two of it, for we be pirates, lads, pirates all, warring & fighting & making fancy ashore & shanties adeck, aye, & if we've a mind to shit o'er starboard, so it shall be! If we've a fancy to piss from the crow's nest, as numerous times yer cap'n has found fit to do, so it shall be, maties, for a pirate concerns himself not with the petty & the trivial. There be survival, advancement, booty & legacy, aye, & there be famine & depravity & drought & duress, too, laddies. Ye miss the point of what 'tis to be a pirate in the modern age. I ought to slap each of ye with me scabbard to waken ye in yer boots, aye, though truth be told ye've probably pink slippers shaped like dogs o'er yer digits, ye two-penny, good for nothing, disgraceful excuses for men! Off with ye until ye cart back unto me a bottle of rum covered with years of dust! Until ye've waged battle & let the blood dry o'er the wounds! Until maggots swim in yer breakfast grains, ye scurvy coddled currs! Ye've made me like to vomit, & I aver if ye find yerself near me I'll aim for yer toes, ye pigs! Pirates!?! Ye bloody disgraces, ye pain yer cap'n so...

Monday, May 09, 2005

Rosy-fingered Dawn

Ah, lads, when the clouds be to me East & they part like a mermaid's scales to reveal the hidden glory of the sun, aye, then methinks it best me brought me crew to southern seas! Yer cap'n has been occupied consistent-like since last me posted, & aye, mehopes ye find the blood of a viking 'pon yer hands & hooks, laddies, & a bottle bedside! Me good eye reveiwed me comments & found an inquiry into the general hygenic habits of the pirate, aye, & methinks it a good time to reiterate the present date to critics ere I broadside 'em with a clap of me hook. We be not pirates of the golden era, ye blasted & incompetent knaves, but pirates of the present day. Aye, we've seen much & learned by the examples of pirates past, we have, & just as no cap'n would push out with nary a citrus fruit to be found adeck, aye, no cap'n would find 'immself afloat with naught in the way of cleaning agents. Open yer eyes, ye daft pricks! This be the 21st century, aye, be it not? Ye unflagging dunce. Onward, if ye seek out the shit-bestrewn & the piggish, I encourage ye to voyage north to the land of the viking! Besodden, soiled spectacles of filth & privation, they be! & on a different note, baby medusa, what be ye thinking? Are ye too challenged with yer chronologies or be ye so delusional that ye think an infant of ancient myth can slither about me post making hisses at me words? Whatever happened to the notion of linear time, laddies, of A & B? Ye see a ship, ye broadside 'em, ye kill the bastards what guard the fo'castle, & off ye be with a bounty of yer own. Now ye'd have it all muddled like a Rubick's cube, aye, but that be some bizarre fetish of indolent stir-crazy fuckers ashore, it be! I say get yerselves a hobby, lads, or get yerself asea, for yer very notion of time is 'aving its way with ye I aver. I be raving now, lads, for the lunacy that tends to me words be enough for warring. I'll retire to the sundrenched poopdeck for a gulp of brandy methinks, & ye'll away to another era from the look of it.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

Anon, for I Sail!

Laddies, tip o' the cap to ye all, & a fine mornin' 'tis. Methinks the air seems cleaner & fresher in me lungs after a healthy day of pillaging & combat. Me ship be full of it, lads, with new treasures aplenty & me crew engaged presently in cleaning up the sanguine remnants of yesterday's tantrum, aye. Yer dear cap'n, as they say ashore, awakened on the wrong side of bed, such that any prompt led imminently to slaughter. But this morn, as I say, me lungs pull in the azure of the air & me eyes peer o'er the vast possibilities of the seas. After some consultation as a matter of form with Crow's Pussy & Longsince, methinks we'll southwards turn, aye, & make course for the Cape of Good Hope, where me li'l parrot tells me we'll make good on the new bounty. Sailing for Southern climes puts a jig in me bones, lads, & turns me to whiskey where Northern waters promote the healthy & leisurely imbibement of rums & ports. Aye, whiskey to fuel me journey, lads, into those remote & savage waters of the equator. Laymen, & here I mean pussilanimous young stains on the record of human existence, laymen ask me why me ship so constantly sails the seas, & why me anchor drops for not more than a day. When they ask, I generally & by way of the Pirate's Principle afford them a slap to the face with me good hand & a hook strategically maneuvered to turn questions into operatic exclamations, aye. Methinks it best when stupidity gears righteousness to suspend the courage of the idiocy. Aye, lads, me means to say if ye've the balls to ask me such questions, I'll take 'em from ye that ye should shut yer traphole. Alas, though, me ship does turn equator-bound, towards midnight blue waters & green coral mirages seeming to float below the surface. Methinks I'll be away from me post some three days ere ye hear of me again. Until then, lads, listen careful for the cannon's report, aye, & keep wide yer eyes, for there be plenty of amateurs afloat on these very waves. Enough. Anon, I sail, laddies, for the Cape!

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Ire & Venom

To those who would in me way stand this morn I hereby give ye fair warning, aye, a thing not oft conferred by a pirate, for where me blood once flowed cool & calm now venom coarses through me veins lads. Aye, a frightful morn I've had, & already me scabbard be empty & me deck be stained with pearls of crimson blood, me scowl be an iconic glare & me countenence in general, I'm sure, does little to belie the hatred me wakened with, me new bedfellow, me bride. & aye, like a bride, she shall prove intransigent, an edifice built in the center of me new life, a badge me wears 'pon me shoulder, though she be coupled with me very spirit, me comportment to me core. Aye, I give ye warning, lads, not for me own sake, for I'd nothing better enjoy than ripping ye bodily asunder & throwing ye to the sharks whilst me crew devours yer treasures, aye, but for yer own sake, for such cruelty I fancy this morn that my name ye'd sound o'er the waves in a vast & echoing report for mercy, aye, & nary a voice'd return unto ye but me own. Vikings, beware. Buccanears & Privateers, beware. All who cross me path, from dolphin to titan, I care not, shall fall in me wake, their corpses but stones in a bloody river of vengeance. That said, methinks I'll to me rum bottle. Good day.

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Anchor & Labile Growth

In me plundering I've oft had time to cogitate on the anchored settlements that dot the distant shores, aye, & in me thoughts me compass turns to such sedentary living with curious wonder, aye. As well ye know, laddies, me life, as any pirate's, is fraught with motion & everdrawn 'pon the changing seas, where I am naught but the dark shadow that broadsides a merchant frigate ere vanishing as hastily as a dream, aye. But these shorebound, these firmly planted, 'twould seem, stay put & from infant breaths to gruesome deaths they vow ne'er to part from their dear shores, or worse, always to return ere familiarity seeps away & leaves only the vague insinuation of their prior lives. Lads, I be but a simple pirate & aye, I've bemoaned me career I have, for me Elanore toils her days away under fate's cruel script whilst mine hours split 'tween plunder & repose. I conjure softer days, aye, & golden they seem in the spectral prism of remembrance, & like a ghost she moves through me mind. Dagger'll oft wonder at the static life, one closed down of its labile opportunities, one free of brigate & mast & cannonfire's endless report. But then, laddies, something always consigns me, again, to me destiny, & when me hook slashes bodily about me foes, me feels at home. When me parrot & I harmonize into the wee hours of the morn, singing dear shanties & sea-songs & ballads, me feels the comfort of me fate to its fullest. When, atop me crow's nest, me sips of Spanish port & apricot brandy, aye, & me vomit cascades below to the deck in a veritable rainbow of color, me feels me ship is steered a'right. Aye, lads, the life of the pirate is difficult, but it be me only life. Me pen once scratched a song of the Pirate's Dream, it did: "I'm drunk & alone & adrift on the sea, the unbearded young ones want to cry mutiny, but no other cap'n could steer this ship clean, so go on & sing of the pirate's dream, yes, we drink, & dream of the day, when the ship pulls into bay, when the ladies do wear gold berets in their hair & their laughter sounds pleasant & gay." & aye, there's more, but for economy's sake methinks it best to curb meself. So, laddies, wheresoever ye be, aship or ashore, revise yer fates if they needs revision, elsewise commit to them like ye would the song of the siren, aye, be it death or glory that awaits ye.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Belowdecks Me Ponders

Aye, laddies all, a long while it's been in me thoughts since me last posted to this here infernal contraption. After warring it be difficult, me bones sore to the marrow, to dedicate me time to me log, for, forgive yer cap'n, but the small matter of typing with a hook can grow wearisome o'er time, & not a few contraptions have found themselves afloat in the azurite, roiling sea as a result of me frustrations. Aye, well, then, it seems that last me hook touched lightly to page me crew was involved rather vigorously & valiantly in battle with northerners, & aye, true to 'is word, yer cap'n steered 'is ship to victory, delivering unto great Odon & 'is faithful a swift bouquet of tickets to Valhalla's feasts. May they eat their mutton in relative peace, for their bodily vessels've been mutilated beyond belief-- aye, what me hook didn't achieve the tooth of the shark will, I wager. The Viking fights with an odd blend of fierce will & intransigent stupidity, he does, & in the end, the two marry to make a dullard aboard decks & a flaming idiot in martial combat (& aye, I mean it quite literally, for many aboard me ship were ensconsed in orange flame ere they thrust themselves o'erboard for some small relief before they saw the great hall). Ye need only consult the commentary of Hjord, who thinks 'imself already a dutiful servant of the pantheon in spite of 'is earthly shackles of cowardice & rather limited maritime capacities. But we've enough of the Vikings, have we not? Let them bark, & until they bite again I bide me own time, fetching me bounty from the other six seas until me hook be gold with anticipation & me thoughts turn towards quick victory with the veritable haste of Nike of Samothrace herself, winged messenger of yore. What be the point of invalidating via written words the mission of the Viking? What the word would tell the sword would clarify, & as such I'll put me pen in me scabbard & leave me sword poised for slaughter. I've enough time wasted on petty argument that me forecastle appears wanting. Sadly, all that we could plunder of the Vikings has proven useless or culturally obsolete I could say (i.e. whittled statuettes of Ragnar, a few helmets adorned with antlers & horns, vests made of fur & spoiled by mutton stains, a few photos ostensibly of a lurid nature but more closely tied, it would seem, with Hesiod's Iron Age if ye catch me drift, some gargantuan bones picked clean by human molars, & several volumes of hand-clipped "Hagar the Horrible" cartoons which, dare I say it, paint the appropriate picture of the warring Viking as an imbecile with neither the cunning nor tenacity to plunder naught but a lollipop from a schoolgirl). As such, we turn to starboard & make a line for the West, aye, where there be no drought of fine booty for the taking. Until then, laddies, be off with ye, & swiftly at that.