written on: June 25, 2010 Friday
Day 6
A storm. Thunder and lightning, inside the ship as well as outside. Close quarters make tiny fuses into time bombs. Rio says that the ship infuses us with passions, rekindles desires, for better or for worse. I am use to that. New Orleans was like that, which was why there were hardly any drive-by’s in NOLA but many murders by stabbing. Crimes of passion. Passion is love and hate, ecstasy and the depths of despair. Passion is the sea, wild and violent, an abusive lover one minute, and a mother rocking us in her arms the next. She is who she is without excuse. Do we do well to follow her example? I wish we could when it comes to the way the sea seems to not hold grudges. We dump so much shit into her waters, all those thousands of sea-going vessels, many so much bigger than ours, and also what we do along the coast. And still she keeps churning and churning, washing herself clean as best she can. I wish to be like that. On the ship, I wish that every day is a new day, those people that rubbed me raw the day before I can see anew as the sun rises. Not so easy, however, for a human being to be like the sea. Out here, however, when I stand on the bow of the ship as it slowly makes its way northeast and feel my legs bending and swaying with her swells and I close my eyes while I am at it, I can feel the sea within me and it is easier to smile at all of our little dramas.
So on it goes. The confrontation with G. C expressing his frustration. And the storm above as well, wild rain hitting my face as I lean into it and try to read the wind. V is excited to be out in it. The more experienced “man” the helm. The ship burps, her belly full with us, holding us and herself firm against the gale. The ship too is an example of beingness. It bobs like a duck humbling yet sturdily against the waves, now close to 15 feet high sometimes. The ship is the great mama whale.
Day 6
A storm. Thunder and lightning, inside the ship as well as outside. Close quarters make tiny fuses into time bombs. Rio says that the ship infuses us with passions, rekindles desires, for better or for worse. I am use to that. New Orleans was like that, which was why there were hardly any drive-by’s in NOLA but many murders by stabbing. Crimes of passion. Passion is love and hate, ecstasy and the depths of despair. Passion is the sea, wild and violent, an abusive lover one minute, and a mother rocking us in her arms the next. She is who she is without excuse. Do we do well to follow her example? I wish we could when it comes to the way the sea seems to not hold grudges. We dump so much shit into her waters, all those thousands of sea-going vessels, many so much bigger than ours, and also what we do along the coast. And still she keeps churning and churning, washing herself clean as best she can. I wish to be like that. On the ship, I wish that every day is a new day, those people that rubbed me raw the day before I can see anew as the sun rises. Not so easy, however, for a human being to be like the sea. Out here, however, when I stand on the bow of the ship as it slowly makes its way northeast and feel my legs bending and swaying with her swells and I close my eyes while I am at it, I can feel the sea within me and it is easier to smile at all of our little dramas.
So on it goes. The confrontation with G. C expressing his frustration. And the storm above as well, wild rain hitting my face as I lean into it and try to read the wind. V is excited to be out in it. The more experienced “man” the helm. The ship burps, her belly full with us, holding us and herself firm against the gale. The ship too is an example of beingness. It bobs like a duck humbling yet sturdily against the waves, now close to 15 feet high sometimes. The ship is the great mama whale.
posted by Nikki Lyn Pugh | 6:17 PM
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