h. dagger's adventures at sea

Aye, 'twas the Scurvy

2006-11-30T20:36:00.000-08:00

That had me by the bells, laddies, & had laid me out 'pon the deck as a sunset etherized 'pon a canvas or somesuch, but yr cap'n, lads, be resillient if naught else, & here he be, mark me word, ready in ensuing days to revisit 'is old haunts. Patience, lads & lassies, & yr cap'n will atop 'is prow speak forth 'gain--

A Farce Made of the Core of Me

2006-09-19T17:59:00.000-07:00

Not, I'll not, cultural comfort, feast 'pon thee; nay, not choose not to be what type of man I be. Aye, for a day, laddies, there be a multiplicity of imposters that I dare say ought to wag their tongues o'er the stern of a brigate at yrs truly for a lark & see where it ends up-- in a jar 'pon me bedside table or swimming again in the hideous foam of irony that babbles endless 'tween their parted lips. But then, among me crew we've talk like an average bored American day, as long as we're able to stand it 'fore naught but an ill feeling & a putrid sense of futility rises like a morning fog 'round our feet, 'fore we begin to believe the words important in the least, 'fore we build our empire not of bounty, toil & innumerable victories, but 'pon an imperialism of the word. Back to Babyl with ye! Back to yr infernal tower!

H. Dagger II

2006-09-10T15:11:00.000-07:00

Laddies, yer cap'n's been rather quiet 'pon this front on 'count of 'is recent misadventures in cabin recording, aye, for the ditties be piling up, & ere long H. Dagger II will be complete. If ye've the stomach for it, seek ye me new ditties 'pon me myspace page, lads. Aye, tales of woe & joy alike, victory & spoil, bloodshed & longing, penned each & all of me travails 'pon the kingdom of wave.

Bounty

2006-08-30T20:03:00.000-07:00

Yer cap'n's been busying 'isself with bounty, lads, at the pooling & pulling to center stage of it, aye, for 'tween me crew & meself we've plenty of plunder to parse, some compliments of a British frigate that we came 'pon by the Barbary Coast, if ye know the place, laddies, where swales rush 'pon the dancing tide, aye, & the sun beats down with a fierceness I've yet to find paralleled, chapping yer dear skin for life, a fine, leathery chap me lads. But there be Bounty, 'pon me word, in the foecastles of such ships, there ensigns clear or no, lads, & the bounty be glorious in deed. Yer dear cap'n did prevail with naught but a tear in 'is side where a bullet did pass & a bit or two of shrapnel in me forehead to boot, but there be nothing new to that tale. In return, I did come upon the following:
1. A confederate hat once worn by one General Burnsides, if I am to believe the accompanying note
2. A deck of cards with photographs of fine women of the port
3. Two cases of wine from Burgundy
4. A necklace laden with the jewels of the Orient
5. A chest veritably dehiscing with various cloths, amongst them muslin, burlap, silk &c.
6. No less than seven cap'n's diaries from the Days of Yore, containing no small wealth of secrets re: certain whereabouts of certain treasures
7. An autographed Brett Hull jersey
8. A set of jacks cut from the ivory tusk of a Congo rhinoceros
9. Three shrunken heads of various & questionable origin
10. No less than $142.37 American, along with one penny apparently flattened 'neath the wheel of a train
11. One rabbit's foot
11b. One rabbit
12. A painting of some considerable merit depicting mermaids in various & sundry poses
13. A Swiss Army knife, blue
The spoils were many more, me laddies, & as yer cap'n says, we are but in the nascent stages of their exploration & thus any further exposition on the subject may prove premature, aye. If there be more of the matter, I'll keep ye abreast of't. Until then laddies I shall tend to me spoils & may the wind be at yer backs, less & you be a Viking, in which case, may the wind blow yer beard into yer throat until it suffocates ye, scurrilous pernicious scoundrel that God wrought 'pon the world much as 'e did small pox, vermin, bubonic plague & the like, ye maggot.

Ready Yrselves for the Future, Lads

2006-08-22T15:31:00.000-07:00

Aye, I've a myspace account now, laddies, two of 'em quite by accident. The first be a personal one, a mistake wherein I thought I could share me ditties, & the second be this here:
www.myspace.com/henrydagger
Go there & be me friend.

Repose, the Port, a Sweet Melody

2006-08-09T08:28:00.000-07:00

Here we be, laddies, the port-rope taut about the wave-slick pole, its heft & weight undulating, aye, 'top the roiling port, where others akin to it sit idle, empty of crew & cap'n alike, a dark & dense fog lapping about their sterns & starboards like errant ghosts of eel or pup. & I, yer cap'n, ye know, lads, that me good leg ne'er sets its foot 'pon the soil less & we be near me Elanore, & as such here I be, the only seafarer 'pon 'is tied brigate, where me crew be emptied in a rush amid the bounty of the port, its houses of ill repute, aye, its waterin' holes, mercantile shops & the like, lads. From abovedecks yer cap'n hears the melodies of the 'cordian falling into the streets like soft ribbons of gold into a new puddle o' rain, lads, as sweetly, as soft & pleasant unto the ears. Me crew be galavanting, drunk & oblivious, lads, chasing an emerald skirt down an alley, exchanging blows with a rival crew, passing a bottle that will no naught of the tumble of the sea, & methinks the starsglow a peculiar sight tonight, clear & all, lovely & lonely all at once. I pine, laddies, as e'er I do in still moments, for me Elanore, there 'pon that distant shore, aye, her hands a'toil, her azure eyes fixed 'pon the horizon, as if the looking might break its static visage, but nay, nay, here I be, wrapped in the twilight & the strain of 'cordian tunes, alone, alone, yer cap'n here alone.

A Pirate's Advice

2006-07-29T14:47:00.000-07:00

Laddies, o'erwhelming was yr response to me last post & for good reason at that indeed, for what comes of a man when 'is very livelihood paints the terrestrial billboards in such a vast array of flattering colors, aye? What comes of a man when 'is mission becomes defense, when, e'en at sea, borne aloft 'pon the dark waves, the wintery albatrosses flying o'erhead, he must define 'isself against the common misconceptions? Aye, lads, 'tis a miserable thing, wont to defend oneself, e'en as the very act cries of caring, when me crew, me foes, me heart does know what little me thoughts are riddled by that outside me sabre's sphere. There be no facsimile, lads, nay, nor a seat from which one may comfortably sympathize e'en unto the point of empathy. What knows yr cap'n of a pilot's life, of that of a civil war soldier's, of a baker's? Naught! I'll aspire to me own script, lads, writ in the blood of me foes, the cast a mutinous lot of scurvy would-be privateers, the plot unfurling e'en unto the horizon's edge, e'en as each day folds into each next, e'en as me heart pounds me dirty blood through me dirty veins, & e'en as that blood pours o'er the dirty planks of me dirty enemies' brigates! Life! What there is of it!

While the Iron Blazes

2006-07-18T12:24:00.000-07:00

't occurs to me, laddies, that the collective countenence of the United States 'as its ugly head focused 'pon the dire spectacle of a pirate film at the moment, aye, & one based 'pon some mockery of a child's ride no less in some sprawling Floridian hellhole. Such impudence! To celebrate the pirate as a phenomenon untouched by woe, lads, untainted by sin, aye, uncursed, glorious, & so on-- aye, I say bring yr child 'board me ship, aye, & put 'im in the poopdeck for a fortnight until we be a healthy distance in open water, aye, drawing closer to our target, lads. Then bring lit'le Billy 'pon the deck to see the glory & glamour, the triumphant fun of blood soaking the planks beneath 'is li'l toes, of feral strikes of swords against the flesh of men, of the shrill scream of the dyin' brigateer 'neath me dagger, lads, of the stech of the dead borne aloft o'er mast & starboard where the sharks wait with their fangs gleaming white, aye! Li'l Billy, taste the blood of yr crewmate & call yrself a pirate! Draw yr sword out of its scabboard & 'cross the neck of yr first mate at the first sign of treason, li'l Billy, aye, & spend yr lonely nights with naught but the sorrowful dirges of yr parrot patched 'pon yr shoulder. I curse the glory & glamour that spreads o'er the screen, a shining chimera that not even the greatest of the Golden Era saw! See Kidd's head 'pon its spit, see the smoke die in Blackbeard's severed beard, li'l William, aye, & see what came of Bonnie & the rest! Such brief hours, such fugitive charm in the pirate's life! O woe betide, o crimson pallor, o steer me ship clean of such putrid characature!

Where be ye, lads?

2006-07-06T15:31:00.000-07:00

Where now the green fields, aye, & Elysian shores, lads? Where the verdure of the petulant summer o'er the shadows that speckle the sand? A lair for a pirate, aye, when all around me, all all around me, methinks me sees meself in a culture that I know naught of. 'Tis a prayer, lads, to call a pirate's life a glamorous one, aye, for what of travail & strife & stress & stormy sea & murder & treachery & treason & mutiny know ye? What then of a parrot's blood, of 'is feathers in yer teeth, of the spotted wave-arms where yer patch brings it nigh or renders it a blur in the distance with no warning, lads? What of long months in the cabin when monsoons strike unrelentless, of dark nights atop the crowsnest in the wind, of lonely diddies sung for ears that hear naught of the sweet melodies? If ye be among they who deem me life, the life of a pirate, one of glamour & honor & valor, ye be a pernicious fool. Aye, a pirate's life be not for all, lads, but for me, I can haver no other.

O for a Draught of Vintage!

2006-06-19T15:41:00.000-07:00

Aye, aye, laddies all, o for a draught of vintage! Gather ye round the mast & fall, o for a draught of vintage! Me parrot be drunk & slurring his caws, o for a draught of vintage! To piss oneself be not a flaw, o for a draught of vintage! Me breaches be soiled & soggied withal, o for a draught of vintage! So ready yr scapboards & ready yr draw, o for a draught of vintage!

Lads, what for it if yr cap'n writes a ditty here & there? 'Tis a cap'n's prerogative, aye? & what for it if yr cap'n soiled 'is trainers? 'Tis a cruel life 'pon the waves, lads, & yr cap'n cares not for trivial matters, nay. Drink, then, as yr cap'n has, drink a draught of vintage & sleep yr cursed somnolence, & may ye walk o'erboard in yr somnambulation to spare me the plank. The plank, such a thing, drawn o'er heavy salt-arm & briny depths. The plank! The plank!

A Tale, Then, A Tale

2006-06-09T11:19:00.000-07:00

Aye, 't looks like tongues be wagging after me explanations aye like the cursed finger of the ne'ersaywell, that bony thing that rattles in its sheeth of skin, the very rhythm of death itself, laddies, & it wags to & from for yer cap'n to wind the tale of the muleshark, the knock 'pon me cabin door, aye, that ponderous thing, heavy with stolen rings. Well, then, as we left it, lads, if me mem'ry serves me so well as me patched parrot, I was suspended in me tale in the murky depths, aye, with the effects of me mutinous crew floatin' about me head like stars 'bout the temples of those that be in tender love, for such have I hard, yer cap'n, verily. On either side, lads, I spied me sinking brigate & the naval manowar, a fine little schooner by any account, aye. Me crew, deserters, mutineers, authors of their own dim destiny, every one, signed a pact with the British fleet, aye, for certain recompense after yer cap'n's head a' been delivered. Cruel fate, aye, that puts a man i' the gallows when 'is turns & tricks turn trick 'pon 'isself. The naval ensign o'erhead, each of them was meant to be put to death. Yer cap'n, swirling about as mentioned thought it a bitter decree that me own dagger be not the one to draw 'cross their scurrilous throats, aye, & as such, lads, yer cap'n swam near the hull of the manowar, spying a rope three cubits 'neath the ocean-sheen, where salt-arm & shark alike collide. With me hook I did design meself safe passage, undetected, aye, & with me telescope, rendered broken & hollow now as a straw, I did breathe o'er that glassy mirror which hides the very depths, lads. For nigh on twelve hours me hook held fast, be body dragged along, plumbing the sounds, until I spied above the luminous glow of Diana, aye, 'pon the Western baths. Yer cap'n then crept, lads, a slow climb o'er the rope's length, lighting 'pon the darkened starboard, 'pon the poop-deck, where naught but two custodians of the empire dozed on their guard. An honorable man, yer cap'n awakened them each ere drawing them into eternal repose, lads, for what is a cap'n if not honorable in battle, a head 'bove his mutinous dogs? Stealthily, lads, me peg now covered o'er in the doo-rag of the dead sentinel, I made me way from cabin to cabin, saving the cap'n's for last, aye, & me dagger did draw the blood of many noble men that night, lads, such is true. Me death, 'twould seem, was not ordained for that very night, as so many others, consigned to the fate what couples with crossing Henry Dagger, appeared to be. The cap'n of the vessel, a slight man, aye, & a pussilanimous one at that, lads, cowered 'pon me visage, 'pon the cut o' me job as it entered unbid 'pon 'is cabin as a demon unto a dream. Eyes, what remain of 'em, lads, convey a tale beyond what humble words can hope after, & in that look I taught that lad a lesson, aye, for he knew not the code of the pirate, lads, nor of the seas, nor of simple honor. Me dagger sluiced him four ways & left him bent 'pon his charts, his own blood drawing longitude & latitude. & as for me mutinous crew, that tale I shall impart in a goodly while, lads. Enough blood 'as been spilt here for the time being, lads. For now, let us cast our thoughts far 'pon the reaches of far shores, where our lasses walk 'pon the starry sands & sing after our names.

Longsense

2006-06-03T16:26:00.000-07:00

Longsense, aye, yer voice raises yer cap'n like a bloody Lazarus, aye, like the codpiece of an ornery youth what puts into bay after long travail 'pon the salty tumult, a seafarer, aye, an exile 'pon tide & tumble. What tales I've yet to tell ye, to tell ye all who waited 'pon the knocking for the truth to unfurl, aye, as smoke does, the ghost from the cannon's roar. I've tales, laddies, 'pon me word, I've tales to tell. Now I be wary from wind & word, lads, but I'll be hasty with me return, ere another two months fall o'er the cusp o' oblivion...

Where Afeared Yer Cap'n's Been

2006-03-22T08:31:00.000-08:00

Aye, lads, a goodly tie yer cap'n tied on, laced & licked through with rum & whiskey & haunted ever by ghostly, ghastly memories, lads, such that mine eye was clouded white o'er with the past, aye, at the very expense of the fledgling present, in all of its tender eager dreaming. Aye, well, 't happens, lads, when a cap'n falls on palimpsest & 'is back to the bow does turn. But here I be, lads, ready to wind on me cautionary tale, aye, if ye've an ear for listening. Me previous note digressed lads 'pon that sore subject of Blackbeard, most famed of the post-Golden Age pirates, aye, for reasons I shall avoid exposing again today, though suffice it to say me laddies that ere a man becomes a pirate proper he dabbles not in marketing, nay, but steers a course of trial, toil & travail that defines 'is endeavor, aye, to its very core, lads, such that the savagery of battle defines i'm from the inside out, lads, & not, as with that pestulant proxy, the loosely worn cape of words. Well, enough o' that, lads, & on with me tale. I left ye there with the frigid water rushing full into me brigate's hull, aye, with me unpatched eye looking on as about me artifacts whirled in the wake of the sinking bulk, me shoulder badly bitten by the mule-shark that now shall grin no more, aye, &, from what I espied there below the blue, me crew had lighten 'pon the British man-o-war with nary a speck of apparent guile, divested thereupon of their integrity as pirates, becoming instead, of an instant, scurrilous dogs, aye, woe-beholden, manacled to the fate of the pussilanimous & putrid of spirit, aye. & there me spied their things whirling in that vortex of frozen sludge, & there I spied me escape, aye, where no good eye would fall 'pon me, where me crew might think me dead that I may Lazarus unbid to bring them to the consequence of their mutiny. Aye, lads, I found me escape in-- beg yer pardon, lads, a knock, a knocking now 'pon me wooden door...

Me Tale Winds On...

2006-03-08T12:42:00.000-08:00

Aye, lads, a heavy repose did yer cap'n take there, dreary-lidded, aye, e'en under the rosy fingers of Eos in 'is bloody chariot, lads. If me memory serves me well, aye, I'd told ye of the muleshark, that now toothless beast of the depths, bespotted, speckled, various in hue, aye, that now I fear may find no easy purchase among the creatures of that watery abyss. Once that dear creature, though, had through 'is collision with me old ship's hull there poked a hole, aye, as ye know lads, the watery depths did there extend, eager like as the damned lined up o'er that Stygian clime. There rushed that frigid water, until me eye did perceive the slow undoing of me brigate's buoyancy, lads, & methought the hull did turn peculiar in its perpendicularity to the sea's rolling plain, & there, after a moment's hesitation, did I see it slowly to sink, lads, a sight not unmixed in its effects on me, as long years of travail, toil, & bounty have I abovedecks there espied, aye, & long years of various other pleasures belowdecks linger still in me sweet memory, lads, aye, for memory & its very remembering profer the pirate some small comfort over peril-imbued journeys like this very tale I tell ye now. But me focus wavers, lads, as the bygone cries out to me, aye, in its luring euphonic lull, a siren that ne'er leaves yer course unfettered. Nay, but there I saw me ship plunge & perish, its various effects scattered in variegated states of disrepair, aye: a cape flowing like anenome here, an oak box of jacks letting each, one & all, float forth of its open lid like stars being birthed, lads, the severed mast whirling yet as if wind-touched, the scrimshaw cane me pilfered off of the Ivory Coast, the pantaloons that a gypsy in the West Indies swore up & down to have belonged to Blackbeard 'isself, who, let it be known here & now, lads, for all of 'is performative savagery, was found out & hung when 'is ship sat lazily adrift in a none-too-remote cove, aye, & he & 'is crew could not be stirred from their inebriate sense of the world's calm to rightly defend themselves. 'Tis said that the cap'n of the Royal vessel that brought the broadside about was in fact hesitant e'en to near the ship, such was the stretch & power o' the myth, lads. Blackbeard, 'is beard lit aflame, 'is eight daggers & two pistols, thought 'imself impervious to the cruelty of fate, but there, 'is crew on 'is side, a smaller Royal ship took 'im for all 'is worth, lads. But I, yer cap'n, be here still, aye, & yer cap'n records here misadventures that surmount the petty cannonroar of any nation's fleet. Be my beard ablaze, lads? Be me timbers shivered? Be me but a mockery of me own self, unable to draw 'pon me will to salvage what seems a dire & inexorable fate? Aye, I thought not. I'll the rest explain ere long, lads, but believe ye me, Blackbeard be but a cartoon, aye, a schoolgirl as I've sung, when ye put 'im next to me. I'll tend the bottle now, lads, 'fore I tend me tale...

The Tale of Me Absence Involving the Muleshark, Mutiny, &c. Carried Further...

2006-02-24T07:41:00.000-08:00

So there I was, laddies, poised on not one, nay, but 'twixt two cusps of certain peril, such as me good eye had not espied in some considerable time. It be not fitting for a cap'n to hobble solemnly to 'is own demise, lads, nor for such a pirate as meself to hold me hook & hand out for the drawn taut ropes of me bastardly crew, nay, for such would be an acquiescence to the very verminous spirit that beclots the indolent mind of the mutineer. Nay, I say, for all the peril of the seas, aye, for the vicious tumult of a pirate's life, for the warring, the long days with naught but the broad blue expanse of ocean horizon to greet yer wandering, for all of that there be no solution in mutiny lads. 'Tis a depravity of the faculties, a divorce 'tween reason & gumption, aye, that sends a cap'n o'er 'is own plank! Well, lads, I'd not let me own crew take me, nor would I face the odds against their new friends o'er that roiling chasm of wave, where, surely, I'd come 'pon a fate like old Kidd's, hung tight o'er some jetty or jutting shoal, me corpse slowly decaying for all to see, a warning to the pirates of tomorrow, aye. Alas, laddies, yer cap'n took a great billowing breath of briny air into me lungs & leapt forthwith o'erboard, down where keel slices wave, where hope borders precariously on certain doom. Me misadventures below-waters in the past have been many & variously hued, to be sure, lads, & this proved no exception. As I began me descent, aye, I spied the gaping jaws of the muleshark drawing near in no state of repose, lads, but rather, as if held such with a vice or crowbar, hinged at their greatest capacity. Many thoughts swirled about in me head, lads, aye, many a ploy of what a cap'n should do in such a case as this, & ultimately, me spirit of revenge trumped me spirit of voracious appetite for violence, & me drew the muleshark into swift pursuit of me person, for yer cap'n, peg, hook, & all, is unusually gifted in aquatic maneuvers, & broke the pattern a split second afore I reached the tired wooden hull of me ship, aye, & such was the velocity of the shark, & so great & sharp the multitude of 'is bloody teeth, that his collision in that dark water with me old brigate breeched a considerable hole in the planks, thus letting the water silently roar in whilst abovedecks me mutinous crew knew not the nature of their impending destiny. 'Twas my plan, lads, to lure the shark towards the English brigate as well, but such was the violence of the impact that the muleshark's gaping mouth was left bereft of its teeth & instead displayed the visage of a bloody, gum-beridden mess. There was great pain & suffering in the eys of the muleshark as past me he swam, a plaintive wail rising from the belly of the beast. Methought it the great shame of creation, aye, that we among ourselves must employ our living, breathing brethren for such purposes & to such effect. Methought the world's wonder, in that moment, tainted by the impurity of its recourse, lads, such that methought animal necessity in us all the enemy of awe. I'll give ye pause here, lads, for after such events as came 'pon me pursuant of this, I be made tired with but the slightest stroke of the plume. Afford me a moment's repose, lads, & the rest will in its time be revealed.

Cast O'erboard, The Crisis of the Muleshark, Perfidy of the Crew, Triumph Alas!

2006-02-17T09:41:00.000-08:00

Laddies! Aye, indeed 't has been rife with violent struggle, me timely delay. Methinkest that many among ye perhaps thought yer good cap'n a goner, a permanent fixture in the watery firmament of Davey Jones locker, aye, but here I be, of a piece, of sorts, of great tumult & toil revivified & restored, lads, such that methinks the world anew a place of wonder! Aye, for the tale is long & its circuitous details be many, & for me purposes methinks 'twould be best to serialize me latest adventures, so vast & so varied they be!
Aye, last I left ye 'twas a period of quietude boardships. The winds were few but favourable, aye, & thus the waves carried us along with little resignation or resistance, the broad blue ether beyond our prize, the northern waters where old foes & rivals did dip their schooners in the icy sludge. Aye, such a people as called the ocean once 'grass-edge,' but could not keep the word from meaning also 'keel's edge,' so riddled with the complications of inbreeding & incompetence were their forebearers in those tundra-spotted Nordic lands. But nay, I'll not, no, feast 'pon the easy target of Viking dimwitedness, for in the scope of things, such comments I'll reserve for a lazy day, lads, & then only after me writes a ditty or two.
So 'twas that me finds meself on gentle waters & with a restless crew when by dint of providence or damnation we came 'pon an English brigate with a freight of goods bound for the North American coast, aye. Afore their eyes could spot me flag me ordered the British ensign raised on high in place of me Rogers, & ordered me crew to make haste in interpreting the costume of the English seamen, aye, in order to make for a bounty captured with the greatest of ease. 'Twould seem, sadly, that some among me crew had grown mutinous, & though to all visible aspects of me good eye they obeyed me orders, one among them sent the messenger raven o'er ships to the brigate. Unbeknownst to yer cap'n, lads, me jig was up, & as I approached the brigate I saw not the welcoming arms of countrymen, but the gaping welcome of the canonroar & musketshot. Not a moment later, when I turned me person to rally me crew, I was greeted with what appeared the mirror apparition of what lay across that slim chasm of sea, for me own crew had me trained in their sights, their scaboards empty, their rifles poised at the shoulder, a collective menace writ large across their foreboding & scarred & ubiquitously hideous countenences. Here I be, then, says I, a captive in me own ship, an English brigate with a noose belowdecks for me on one hand, me own crew with a dagger to plunge deep in me chest on the other. What was I to do laddies? Patience, & I will the story tell...

A Goodly While

2006-01-04T11:45:00.000-08:00

Aye, the seas are sludge & sledge, the floes be broad & veritably insurpassable, lads, & the chill of the air be such that me hook found not the warmth it needs for spinnin' the yarn, as they say. Aye, many a moon I've spent in Northern waters, assailing Vikings, casting various missiles at Hjort & his brethren & kin. More shall I report, but lads, lest ye worry, yer cap'n be true.

Me Journals

2005-11-21T10:37:00.000-08:00

Aye, so what of it, me inchoate eye trained on that West of yore? Aye, I've seen penguins too Cap'n Gov'nerbottom, but where be their renderings? Where their stolid beaks? Nay, yer naught but a one timer, a sleuth & sloth coupled. Ye maggot, go off with ye & dance a jig with Hjort.

Lock Safe & Vouch

2005-11-16T08:58:00.000-08:00

There be in me cabin a number of sundries, lads, aye, that would make for an exposition of hefty merit. I'll not to me list making, but me good eye spies little that seems worth me while to write of present. The seas be calm, aye, & the waves spread out endless o'er the vast blue sphere, lads. Our course be set & our sails sturdy & naught but wind & water 'tween here & there. Piracy can test a man's patience, 'twixt fighting & famine, spoil & solitude. When we loot, aye, there be a fire in me veins, but here, adrift 'pon the roiling sea, there be little but the music of man's nerves & sinews. Drat, laddies, & blasted be the silent cannon.

Odin & the Sabre

2005-11-09T08:59:00.000-08:00

Hear this, Hjort, ye galloping troglodyte, ye malodorous taint, yer Odin be naught but a dream of making a Viking's life worth living. Aye, for all yer toil & trouble in the Viking life, ye've naught to show for it but a half-eaten mutton leg, an empty bottle of skolled-away lambic & a bounty of insidious rashes. Aye, tis true, ye sloth, ye ferrit, ye lumbering manchild, yer salvation lies in Odin's promise, aye, which entails that ye'll eat mutton again, aye, & find yerself in the company of yer mates, aye, until the sun sets on eternity. Blasted Odin! I'll not speak for me maties, but be ye sure, ye dilapidated, lichen-covered, termite infested frame of a man, that 'tween me life of constant revelry & victory at present & the promise of a Valhalla full of half-dead larva with horned helmets salivating & throwing tripe scraps about their flowing beards for all of eternity, I'd pick me life of the present. Aye, ye can run & hide behind Odin all ye want, ye scowling turd, for at least then yer person is hidden from me good eye & the rising tide of vomit & bile that me tastes in me mouoth every time ye surface can abate for a moment's respite, ye scabrous festering rhinocerous.

Aye, all Brunic

2005-11-07T09:07:00.000-08:00

Aye. I've a melotron, it plays, it plays & the scrolls of the sea unfurl. Aye, aye, I've a golden ear what hears the choir of the world. Lads, lads, be ye strong, ere the leaden siren nears. Toil, toil, aye light me way, for toil tattles all yr fears.
What the fuck then lads. Where be the bounty of yore?

A Brief Note Concerning Mermaid & Dolphin

2005-10-10T08:57:00.000-07:00

Laddies, I bid ye top o' the morn, aye, & a blustery thing it be, aye, as me good eye's seen naught of Eos on 'er bloody chariot, nay, but rather the swirling chill of snow & rain 'pon me decks, aye & the harsh blow of the wind o'er me sails, bringing not a little frost to the tips of me beardhairs, lads, on such a morn as this. Glad I be though that such weren't the climes as me disappearance unfurled in its strange mystery, lads, for the Pacific be chilly enough of temper & temperment that no man should endure its depths whilst above tide & sky collide in such thunderous inclemence. Aye, for me time belowseas was endurable lads, me thanks in large part to a nest of mermaids that 'pon the bottom lived, beds of fine sand & feasts of such multifarious splendor that, if they involved cooked bits here & there, would have been of unheard of magnitude. Aye, & down 'twixt fin & soft mermaid skin there swam a school of dolphins such as a man rarely spies from 'board ship, velvety grey skin & black eyes as deep as their abode, lads. Some good comfort I took there, 'pon the silty shifty divides, that methought meself transplanted to some carnal heaven, aye, to top the Valhalla Hjort champions in 'is own feeble way (allowing that, aye, such a thing may be perty, but 'ere 'pon the seas we've many splendors to surpass that ultimate goal of the yellow-blooded viking). Aye, a toast for mermaid & dolphin, lads, for yer cap'n owes 'is very survival & one or two curious rashes to the intimacy they provided. Ah, lads, such wonder in the world, there is, such wonder.

Timbrel & Trumpet

2005-10-05T09:13:00.000-07:00

Aye, laddies, ye scabrous dogs tho' ye be, sound the trumpet & make merry with a tune & a wee lass of a parrot, for Dirty Mulebeard's walked another of time's planks, aye, & here he be, aswim in infested waters, a tad greyer in crown & collick, lads. Raise yer goblets, aye, & a merry tune, for dirty Mulebeard, who, tho' he be indisposed of the present tending to matters of the heart with his bird, aye, well, a celebration no less, ye indolent louts! Aye, for yer cap'n is returned & return granted aye indeed by Poseidon or some such wielder of sceptre or staff, for such were the depths of the sea to which yer dear cap'n plummeted, lads, that ere me time was up methought meself a ghost rightwards, plumb deep, the pith of meself, me didgits indivisible sightwise form the anenome crawling about the water like the hair of a dead man. Aye, lads, yer cap'n went under in a moment of sheerest leviathan intimacy, aye, with 'is arms about the great whale like a bear's about a tree, & down, down, down we went until yer cap'n was unplugged so to speak me laddies, & set gently 'pon that silty bed. Aye, subsisting on crabs & octopus, me took me time drawing a plot of return, the while breathing into me flask for short supply of breath laddies, until the flask were emptied of air, & me lips purloined the good stuff from a seahorse's corporeal form, aye, as easy as that. Ye live & ye breath lads, & no depth of tumult or blue, no swirling eddy, no confounding water pressure about one's temples ought to leave ye reft of that. I'll more foray in times to come, but at present lads, a song, a song for Dirty Mulebeard!

Hjort vs. Mulebeard

2005-09-26T15:49:00.000-07:00

Hjort vs. Mulebeard, aye, me laddies, a perennial debate 'tween the savagery of the pirate & the tame growl of the viking from behind a leg of fine mutton, aye. Ponder if ye will, nay, if ye must, but if ye must, ye must a dullard be.

Dragged 'pon the Sea-Bottom

2005-09-19T09:25:00.000-07:00

Lads! Me gaping mouth breathes full again the briny air, aye, in all its autumnal glory! My eye hath seen the glory of the lurks-beneath, lads, aye, the purple castles of mermaid & merman, the sounding communion of whale & sand, the dregs, aye, the very depths! The lost brigates of centuries bygone, in hallowed antiquity & with careful art kept on the sea's shifting bed. Aye, lads, me hook did pierce the whale that would take yer cap'n away, & aye, try 'e did at that, but ere long, yer cap'n prevailed. Christ on a crutch, lads! A draught of rum ere a tale I spin!

Just As I Thought

2005-07-06T13:49:00.000-07:00

Aye, 'tis just as I thought lads, there be none of ye half-witted enough to challenge yer cap'n to a dual of ditties, nay. Even Fjord put 'is bellowing conche belowdecks as rightly he should. 'Tis heartening, lads, & be assured ye of this: yer cap'n be laboring in his own cabin, aye, setting to tune & mellifluous ditty the triumphs & travails of me life, aye. It be a sad & longing tale, lads, & sadder still that me crew is turned 'round & the likes of Whiskey, Crow's Pussy, Long Since & Chris are no more aboard me brigate, aye, but tide turns to time lads & leaves us with naught but a shanty in our mouths & an empty bottle in our hands. Though it be true, yer cap'n has recorded 'is tunes in the past & has plans ahead for 'is libretto, lads, aye, a cultured & piebald thing, it. The tru tune of a pirate, aye, to piss o'er the imposters brackish bones, lads. Aye, me teeth be wobbly, maties, but me words spill out no less, for I've seen naught of blood nor dyin' nor warfare for nigh on two weeks & me spirit be dull of the repose. Aye, lads, Christ, piss in the ocean I will.

Delusions

2005-06-30T14:40:00.000-07:00

If ye think fancy yerself a pirate musician, aye, I'll have a quarrel with that, lads. A challenge, aye, a challenge to any who would think themselves capable of matching Dagger ditty for ditty. Ye bespectacled, tweed-wearing, marble throated, overproduced, prancy little posturers need not answer lest ye meet the hook, but I fancy there be a pirate tune or two out there I've not set me ears 'pon nor heard me parrot sing in her mellifluous & euphonic manner. A ditty for a cap'n, then...

Mine Ears've Heard the Horror

2005-06-29T07:52:00.000-07:00

Lads, a good morn to ye, aye, but a raucous one here aboard me brigate, for a now indisposed matie brought to me attention the existence of a band of louts presuming to write pirate ditties with no eye for accuracy, lads. Aye, we speak of misguided youth what'll co-opt a shanty as soon as eat a Big Mac, laddies, & these miscreants, the decemberists, what's more, these miscreants lads grate 'pon the very ears they do like the curdling scream of a norwhale! For Christ's sake, lads, put yer blasted instruments to the deck, & ye who sings, stop up yer throat with a sock, lad, for ye've the very voice of a dying goose. Jesus, lads, what an affront to an honest pirate such filth proves to be! I'll to New England, aye, or California, or wherever needs be visited & there indeed I'll show ye a shanty, a ditty of the Golden Era or a bawdish tune to fit these modern times, aye. There be some verity in the godawful sounds of such a band, lads, for as ye know, Rogers 'isself, along with the likes of Blackbeard, carried in tow a three piece ensemble whose very purpose it was to psychologically torment opponents with dissonant & chaotic blasts of trumpet, drum & string, all out of tune, out of sorts, aye, a horrid assault on the auditory system lads. Yer cap'n wagers the same of these vascillating imposters, aye. Me rage at hearing me own music make a mockery of makes me hasten me brigate ashore, where me brandy awaits & me Elanore's abiding hand may guide me, aye, however briefly, afore I find myself kneedeep in blood again, in another cove, the brilliant sun shining 'pon me argent blade, which will plunge, lads, straightway where needs be, savvy. Ditty that, ye pesky posturing bafoons, ye degenerate thieves. Be there nothin' sacred, lads? Aye, & so be it, for me hook knows nothing of value or judgement.

Restorative

2005-06-27T06:43:00.000-07:00

Aye laddies a long while it's been since me sat in earnest to relay the various & sundry details of me time asea. The tonic of horizon-line waters can be damning to a pirate, aye, & make 'im idle as a viking at that. Pushed into troublesome & sordid bouts with kidney stones, aye, & a man's wits turn not to the page, lads, but to the finer art of withholding bloody murder at the sight of 'is own yella piss. & aye, we've turned now from southern climes & rallied towards the quaint bays of New England, lads, where in the Golden Era (1701-1720) there fluorished any number of ports wherein a pirate could find repast & repose with politicos, aye, from Manhattan to Providence & beyond, verily. These days the welcome is harder fought, lads, & me ensigns be those of a merchant vessel for the time being. Our stocks be low, though, lads, & traded we have the majority of our finer items, in favor of whiling the time with rum & song. Aye, we came upon a school of wholphins in our travels, lads, that nestled fine alongside a man, indeed, comparably to a porpoise I might add. Tide & wave as far as a good eye can visage, lads, & no gentle company at that. Methinks betimes the life of a pirate be savagely inhuman, lads, ere the evenin' rolls round & me be enchanted all anew of it. Aye, the dirth & dirge of steady drink lads, when it be mornin' & the bright & brilliant sun be blindin' ye through yer cabin glasspiece as ye rise, aye, rise & walk from yer patched parrot to greet yer crew. Dear lord, the African rum stays with ye & finds its only combatant in either fine port or Spanish brandy, aye, lads, mark ye these words of mine. Me time away 'as served me to a poncie, lads, & ere I find meself begarbed in feathers & gowns methinks it wise to sully me blade with the ole crimson aye. Me good eye can't focus on such as an argent & unspotted blade, lads -- it be a tale of woe & depravation to hold a tool divided of its purpose. To New England then, lads, & to the ivy walls wherein a bounty of plenty awaits.

Aye & me Kidney Stones too

2005-06-23T14:38:00.000-07:00

'Tis true lads, I be passing the wee stones in the midst of me greatest & most epic bender to date, aye. To the North country! I'll cache the blood in pint jars for a Viking's repast!

Pist, laddies

2005-06-17T12:45:00.000-07:00

Aye, pist I be lads, & strectched 'pon a bender as a redbeard 'pon a scythe...

Thy Scabrous Cries

2005-06-06T07:42:00.000-07:00

Again, laddies, me apologies precede me diatribe, aye, for where Hjort posts 'is flaming retardations, there I must address myself post haste, as it be unbefitting for a pirate to take the befuddlingly tangential insults of a viking lad. Indeed, if there be a code unwrit, lads, for a pirate of the high seas, it be stressed foremost that no such advance shall go unavenged, & here let it be said, lads, that me sword be drawn, me scabbard empty, me parrot hopped up on rum & methamphetamines, aye, & we be prepared for reckoning indeed. Aye, such shall be our fury that the Northern seas shall be awash in orange flame, aye, for so dense shall the water's surface be with the bodies of slain vikings that a fire will surely catch with a like ease to the cuyahoga, aye, in the eighties of yore. A wee starfish jumped aboard to tell me the tale, lads, & me skin seemed ashiver. & no, in that architecture of odium resides that imperiled king of sophistry, Hjord, who shall meet me blade forthwith, whose house I shall deconstruct swiftly & dispatch of with flame, with hook, with rancor unparalleled. Aye, methinks it time for this conversation to find its abrupt end, lads, & for yer cap'n to tend to other matters in his diary of the seas, as it were. Aye, the life of a pirate be riddled with like savagery, but myriad be its outgrowths, lads, & to keep a tight focus on one petty viking for so considerable a time be unbecoming for a cap'n, aye, such as Ahab to 'is leviathan. That said, me sword be drawn...

Hjord, ye Petulant, Scabrous Dog

2005-06-03T09:33:00.000-07:00

Hjord again defiles me post, as such a recreant misuse of tissue & organ is prone to do, laddies. For beneath 'is horned helmet, aye, & under the scab of a red beard he wears about 'is apish visage, there be naught but a wee shadow of a man, aye, one enveloped in myth largely due to the sad reality of 'is day to day life, lads. For what sadder reality be there but that of a Viking? A people once glorious, aye, I'll admit it, but now defiled, defamed, made weak by time & tide, cowering miscreants whose deeds be those of adolescence, as frivolous & as empty of impact. Aye, Vikings be a lesson unto as all, lads, that yer rhetoric be naught but a mosquiot bite when yer sword be drawn. Aye, a promise, Hjord, I'll dispatch of ye, & upwards to the Great Hall or downwards to Davy Jones' Locker, I care not where goes yer soul, but I assure ye of this: Dagger'll piss 'pon yer bloody corpse, aye, & defecate promptly into yer blasted antiquarian helmet! Ye be naught but a tick 'pon me hide, lad, who feeds not on me blood, but 'pon 'is own tumid hubris. Ye'll to the ocean's bed soon enough, Hjord, aye, or me name be not Henry Dagger.

Yours, H. Dagger

2005-05-31T07:58:00.000-07:00

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.

The Moon, the Pale Sickle

2005-05-26T07:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Solitude, the Bloody Kind

2005-05-25T10:03:00.000-07:00

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.

A Solitary Pirate

2005-05-24T09:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Long Has It Been

2005-05-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Hush, Laddies, a Battle Soon Shall Wage

2005-05-12T07:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Where Now the Pageantry

2005-05-11T07:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Ye Pesky Womenfolk

2005-05-10T06:43:00.000-07:00

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...

Rosy-fingered Dawn

2005-05-09T06:59:00.000-07:00

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.

Anon, for I Sail!

2005-05-05T06:28:00.000-07:00

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!

Ire & Venom

2005-05-04T08:35:00.000-07:00

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.

Anchor & Labile Growth

2005-05-03T06:26:00.000-07:00

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.

Belowdecks Me Ponders

2005-05-02T06:27:00.000-07:00

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.

A Reading Tip for the Literary Pirate

2005-04-29T13:11:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-29T07:56:00.000-07:00

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!

The Curative & Restorative Properties of a Vitriolic Battle

2005-04-28T07:09:00.000-07:00

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...

Hjord & Whale Pizzle

2005-04-27T07:11:00.000-07:00

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.

The Vikings

2005-04-26T08:09:00.000-07:00

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!

How a Weary Prisoner May Achieve 'is Freedom

2005-04-25T07:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Captive Though I Be...

2005-04-22T07:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Where Goes the Time?

2005-04-21T15:44:00.000-07:00

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.

Ship-shape Again

2005-04-20T07:19:00.000-07:00

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.

Wonder & a Fart Balloon

2005-04-19T07:25:00.000-07:00

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!

Tempestuous Day Ahead

2005-04-18T07:59:00.000-07:00

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!

Me Chest Hairs, Fine & Copious

2005-04-15T07:58:00.000-07:00

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.

Ahoy!

2005-04-14T07:47:00.000-07:00

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.

Long Since

2005-04-13T08:38:00.000-07:00

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!

The Trumpet Sounds Another Year

2005-04-11T07:14:00.000-07:00

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!

The BeardBeard Charitable Foundation

2005-04-08T09:26:00.000-07:00

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.

Wave & Shore

2005-04-07T07:44:00.000-07:00

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?

Tide Idle Cabin

2005-04-06T08:49:00.000-07:00

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!

Little Ditties

2005-04-05T12:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Cutlass & Compass

2005-04-04T12:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Dirty Mulebeard

2005-03-31T08:29:00.000-08:00

Mulebeard you saint you I labored o'er a response of substantial form ere me blog engine deleted the whole damn tripe of it. Point was laddies, & here consolidated considerably, cast yer hope o'er the stern & ere long the basic fundamental form of well-being will catch the line. Bite off the cork laddies, but 'tween sips conjure yer battles & spoils & settle yer scores, for the battle wages on in spite of yer piteous leanings. Aye, uncork a fine African rum & nestle in the crowsnest & let ole rosy-fingered dawn tickle yer manbeard me laddies, & tell me life is bad. The life of the pirate is tough, true 'tis, to the bone, but as ole whiskey said 'twixt tirades on sexual duplicity & dips in the whale spout, tough tittie toenails. Indeed, so it is me laddies. The music plays on, & on we go to the seabed for a bevvy of mermaids with which to besmirch our sorrows! To the other side of the tack me laddies, to the crowsnest for a sip of golden ambrosia, aye! Afore this letter makes a preacher of me, afore the spirit touches me, aye, away & avast laddies!

The Crow's Nest & a Bottle of Rum

2005-03-31T08:03:00.000-08:00

Ere long a man wonders at the aspect of sympathy & wherefrom it may come whisping along like a gale off shore or the flatulence of a petulant mermaid, aye. Not given long to such cause, Dirty Mulebeard coupled a comforting song with 'is old empathy, assuring old Dagger that a plunge into a whale's spout & the brisk touch of rosy-fingered dawn upon a manbeard at dusk is enough to plow us through our days. Indeed, a pirate oft lets 'is feeble perspective drop o'erboard & regains it somehow like a thick line cut in the wake, pulling along a shark carcass or mutineer. The point, laddies, is that rum, that sweet elixir, that guilded golden ambrosia, is no cure-all without a proper reconsideration. Take a sip, aye, but 'twixt sips think long & hard on yer battles & scars laddies, & then breathe in the salty musk & whalefog that surrounds ye, & cast yer good eye along the horizon fer a new battle. Wisk away the dew from yer manbeard & put on a dry cap laddies; the battle wages on. Mulebeard's got a good eye indeed, & one what'll remind a laddie, nay, e'en a captain, to itch his ass with the good hand & spare the hook for vittles forthcoming. Aye, the life of the pirate is tough, but tough tittie toenails as ole Whiskey once said, 'tween his keen observations on sexual duplicity. Tough tittie toenails, laddies, the music plays on. Retire to the crowsnest if ye seem to've lost yer pair & let the sun & wind stir yer loins back to happiness. Christ, a preacher I've become! To the bottle & be swift with ye laddies, ere the spirit possesses me! Let us to the seabed for a bevvy of mermaids & their netherparts, me laddies! Away!

'Twixt Famine & Fighting

2005-03-29T07:53:00.000-08:00

Ere five days 'ave passed without a word, I sit before ye now, only to say that naught has transpired but anxious stasis. When ye sit back & lick yer wounds & think over the years of travail & wonder at the next impasse ye become bedeviled with the unsettling call of sentiment & hopeful despair, don't ye? Behind ye lay the ruinations of warring, the wounds that left ye scarred, the sunken brigates what left the forecastle stuffed tight with bounty, the long & oft forgotten hours wherein ye sang a tune of yer lost love while ahead her specter awaits ye, if not in this life then in some other. & the hopeful despair is its own breed, 'twixt famine & fighting especially, right there laddies? Ye hope, but hope is risen of despair, isn't it? The end of wanting? Hope after a better life, after a plentiful bounty, after the push of some momentous change in current or sighted land, & then go on & shit in the other hand laddies & see which'll fill fastest. We while the time away awaiting something unforeseen, & all the while the forms that fill our horizon prove delusions & vanish like a ghostly squall. So she goes, laddies, so she goes.

Those What've Seen the Tail End of the Plank

2005-03-24T07:37:00.000-08:00

To live & lose & endure it in the name of copious bounty, aye, that is the motto aboard me ship. Aplenty of men have been driven shoreward under the waves or plunged in steel shackles to their watery grave & god bless them, aye. One of our own laddies was carried aloft upon a whale's back with his tallywhacker plugged in the spume-hole, like a wart growing on the back of that leviathan's gargantuan head. Let it be a lesson to ye. Plenty of our kind meet with the reaper early & with e'erlasting stupidity as the curse. Say what ye will of old Blackbeard, stowed away in a cay off the island, sipping rum for three days while the siren song of the Jamaican mermaid tinged the air in its mellifluous way, aye, & for three days he sat & took in the pleasure of his bounty ere the Brit snuck up on him with a broadside. Well, every fight wasn't meant for victory, nor every spume-hole meant for a laddy's privates.
A life at sea will teach ye quick mortality, & our forebearers' names float upon the seafoam and tideswirl just as the algae & dead seahorses do. Time, me laddies, she ticks & ere long ye learn not to tick her off. Gather ye rosebuds & all of that, plug yer whales, unsheath yer argent blade not in the name of honor, for honor is naught but futility laddies, but in the name of deed. Ye laddies & lassies are fodder for tomorrow's tales, aye you are, & though me sounds a bit like a grandaddy I'd err in not remindin' ye. I recall a young stowaway what joined our crew & called me capt'n for a brief while, & with every captured vessel he'd to its bowsprit like a rabid mammal after a kill, fightin to have 'is way with the lady upfront-- eventually we lost 'im to splinters too & damn well deserved, but damn 'im as ye may, he lived 'is measley little life.
Don't go after a wooden mannequin on account of a sea-tale, & keep yer distance from any brigatine ye see on the distant horizon, trust ye me, but live yer deeds & ere long the reaper'll record 'em for ye. Until then, I say raise yer goblet full me laddies & let the tide carry ye on!

A Pirate's Origins

2005-03-23T07:50:00.000-08:00

Oft, in the realm of personal conversation, or from afar as well, I hear tell of persons inquiring after my past. How, they wonder, can a man of any ethical stature lend himself entire to a life of perceived privation, desperate violence, dubious motivations & physical hardship? I wonder at such queries, during long periods of quietude, borne aloft o'er the waves. I tell ye in earnest I know no other life. My dear pappy & mum, noble souls them both, I presume, left me blanketed & sleeping soundly in a half-watermelon rind on the stern of a man-of-war at bay, ne'er to see my cherubic face, ne'er to look into my one good eye again. My life was wrapped up in tide & turning wave from day one, I'm afraid, & afore long I came to know it & nothing else. I have seen, in my travels, my share of empires, of great cities surging toward the clouds, & aye, I've seen the touches of modernity sweep o'er the seven continents like a scourge of righteous vanity, but shiver me mast, I'd rather the life o' the sea, an honest life, a pirate's life. I'd rather live by the sword & cannon than by the stock market. I'd rather be afloat where a man is a man & he takes what he sees. Why are ye a pirate, Captain Dagger, they ask? The answer will please no man. I am a pirate because I was born a pirate, laddies. Come what may-- shaking tempests, wandering barks, drought & famine, mutiny or defeat-- I'll a pirate be till my bloody heart whispers its last & the gray clouds close o'er me. Damn the privation & damn the hardship, we endure, & in endurance lies vitality. So piss on ye who scorn me life & piss on ye who think the ship a relic of the past. My parrot, patched & green, will sing it with me: "we drink for the day when a pirate had his way, before the longshoremen before the coastguard, when a man was a man & he took what he saw."

A General Statement of our Disposition

2005-03-23T07:28:00.000-08:00

Aye, a worthy & overdue form of communique this, when all around the waves be crashing & the whales singing in their bellowy monotone. I've lost count of the years this time, since last Elanore & I took in the breach of the shoal, uncorking a fine rum & whispering forgotten diddies to one another. Ere long I'll forget it all, leastwise if the rum tends its duty. Here, it is only Crow's Pussy & Whiskey & the crew entire, shoddy & bandy-legged, given to scrimshaw or scuffleboard or dreading whiskers in the style of old Blackbeard. I've dipped my own mustachio in scathing wax, fer something to do, the hours drawn & taut afore a treasure peeks out ahead, & why not? It is only life, however strange.
I listen to the parrot sing against the tide-wind & listen to the deep resonant thud of wind socking in the sail & death seems closer, closer, closer while on a far shore beyond or on the other side of the white fence my Elanore works the distillery in longsocks & a hairnet. Would that shore & sea collided! In the clarion call of the seashell I thinks I hear her singing.
I must away, the sea, she calls, the crew she mutines!