How Life Comes Today – A series of some of my more obsessive
traits and observations.
All Hands on Deck -
I wouldn’t say I am happily single, that just isn’t the
right description.
It’s too pretty and too easy to say that. To me it’s not defined
in tangible terms that make sense to my soul.
It’s not some fog of bliss that surrounds me while I snatch up un-expecting
women and take them back to my lair for cookies and tea. It’s simply not that easy and a rather hollow
exercise in of itself. That exercise leaves
much to be wanted in the form of real human connection. The kind of connection that tucks you in at
night and reminds you that you are important to someone, that the things you do
matter to someone, and that you and your actions are valued on merits that only
the two of you might share. That
sometimes working with another physically or emotionally is the greatest sense
of accomplishment, even when those things are another’s goal and not your own;
it’s easy to give your love and time to someone that reciprocates, knowing that
the time you give will be returned someday if needed and that these are the
truths of labors of love. That a hug
between two that ‘love’ is confirmation enough in the act to be satisfying of
itself as an echo of ‘I love you’ without the need for words. Alas, that’s what blissfully single doesn’t get
you.
On the contrary I am quiet lonely here in my boat.
My thoughts are my own and I have no harbor to stash them
when the big waves come rolling, no trusted confidant to help me whether the
storms in my small ill equipped vessel, no one to help me hoist sales or batten
down the deck. The waves come and they
crash over me as I grip the handles for purchase doing my best not to be swept
to the turbulent black sea beneath me and I think my vessel has a hole. A hole beneath the water line so that she
looks safe and lovely from above the water, on her best days her sails brim
fully engorged with the wind and shimmering white as they snap at the breeze,
her railing polished so brightly it hurts the eyes, the straight wood plank
deck polished with wear so that it gleams like soft amber while in each of the
cracks holds the grime of her worldly voyages, her big wheel to steer practiced
by experienced hands used to being at sea; but when you tour her decks you
realize that the boat is mortally wounded and that its ballast is maintained by
a mad man who labors to pour full buckets over the side when no one is looking. He does so to no avail and must take longer
routes to destinations so that people don’t see him frantically pumping to stay
afloat, each of his journeys taking him farther from land. To admit she isn’t sea worthy means nothing
because there is no other option, she must float.
A voyage full of toil and I don’t know where it’s going.
Over the last three years, especially this last one, the
boat has not been on a course. It’s
simply lazily sailed or blown from destination to destination hoping to acquire
some piece of wisdom or some tidbit from a distant shore to show people later,
the cabin is full of this stuff. The
captain’s gone and convinced himself that circumnavigating the globe might be
fun, but more importantly that it’s needed.
That the experiences accrued at each port are valuable and that the
people I meet along the way are invaluable themselves. She’s been to a lot of locations, this vessel
of mine. Some years ago, when at a
destination I would look for someone with knowledge of how to patch the hole or
to teach me to do it and have had to learn that it is no one’s job to ensure
that the vessel stays afloat but me, her captain. There are many at each port of call who claim
to be shipwrights, that any hole can be patched, sails mended, masts refitted,
but they all require the boat to be out of the water, dry docked. They say they will re-paint her, give her new
decks, pick a better suited chrome wheel instead of her rich wood, tear out the
old broken boards of her hull and affix a mend to her hole but I don’t want any
of those things. They assume to change the vessel in ways that
I am not comfortable with. I’m just that
fond of her wounds I suppose.
I still remember what split her.
Maybe that’s the problem, and maybe I am still too fond of
the disaster that tore asunder her gut. It was never intentional after all and it’s
fun to let other people steer and see their vistas, their Elysium fields, their
hopes, to see them learn new things, and to watch them acquire tidbits from my
favorite and frequent harbors. We were
having such a grand time and there was no way to know that the water was
thinning under the boat and would soon run aground against the coral, we couldn’t
be bothered with such observations. How
foolish. How trite. How stupid. I was shocked when we made impact, but she
just smiled and hopped off the boat, making landfall at another port and then
gone on the tides of life on a new vessel, as if she knew the whole time that
the coral was there and that we were headed straight into its grasps. I hope the walk on dry land was nice. Maybe she wanted a bigger boat, maybe mine
wasn’t seaworthy enough to begin with, maybe she just needed a ride for a bit, or
maybe the cabin became too cramped with each of our own collections. Who knows and it’s of no concern now, the
simple fact that there is a hole is all the testimony needed to confirm the act,
the good times as evidence in my collection for me alone. Good thing that hole is below water level.
In truth I tried to patch it myself.
I used bits about the cabin, these things I have
collected. I confused them with the
proper tools needed thinking they were adequate utensils. After all, I spent the time accruing them for
these purposes. Inevitably the hole splashed
them back at me or sucked them through to the briny beyond to be lost. I enacted her favorite tidbits but still she
sputtered. I asked other captains to
help and they lamented me endlessly with how to patch a hole, but their methods
made no difference to my keel and the hole still seeped and bled. I had thoughts of simply scuttling her,
finding a new port of call and buying a new boat but I simply lack the funds
and the courage to leave the vessel to the fates. Those things don’t end well for old boats. The thought of her being dismantled for
others or being cast to the recycle a cryptic pain I refuse to explore.
I learned that every vessel has its blemish.
No captain is perfect and as I meet others, on the open sea
or safely at harbor, I have come to really realize and understand this. There is just too much at sea not to hit
something, too many tragedies, too much flotsam, and too many impending
disasters. One can’t be accountable for
all of it. So much if my boat has a
hole, it still floats which is more than many captains can say. That captain over there has to deal with a broken
mast, that one’s got all of their rigging in a knot, that one’s missing a rudder,
this one can’t tell which way the wind is blowing. But if she’s sea worthy we all still attempt
to sail because it’s in our blood. If
you don’t want to float on the tumultuous sea, find a port, buy some real
estate and hunker down if your soul will let you. I don’t know that mine will let me, at least
right now. I’m still enthralled with the
currents. I’m still hoping to find
someone someday to help me steer the boat again and no sailor worth the salt in
the ocean stays at harbor for longer than necessary.
No more tours of the decks.
It’s as simple as that, they just stopped. Some people ask with great courage and bravado
and I readily agree but when it comes time for admittance the captain is nowhere
to be seen and I hide myself away. When
people poke around on the docks inquiring about the boat I busy the ship as
quickly as possible to make them think I am leaving. Sometimes for kicks, I promise a tour knowing
full well that I won’t be there. I hope
that does not make me a terrible person, it’s just nice to hear it sometimes
and I am always interested in the idea of showing what’s below. It’s hard for people when they get there
hopes up and realize there will be no tour so I have tried to stop doing
it. Perhaps it’s a sort of stage fright, knowing
that a tour will have to file past this giant hole. When I am in a harbor I try
to keep to myself and entertain myself with my own things, these tidbits I have
collected, or I will bury myself with the other captains discussing the things
only us captains know about. I have
these things I have collected strewn about the cabin. Some have specific places and those that do I
look at often. People know I have them,
how they know this I do not know, and I think this is why the idea of a tour
sounds so lovely, maybe they think that I will even let them steer someday. Sometimes instead I busy myself with the hole
or any of the other required maintenance to keep her afloat. She seems better before we unhitch from the
dock and set out but once we are on the sea again the water starts splashing
in, best find the bucket, best to start scanning for another harbor.
It’s all about keeping her afloat, this vessel of mine. So don’t say it’s blissful. It’s terrifying.
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