Suddenly, for an old sailor, it’s like being at sea again. Not in a rough trade rust bucket. Or a doomed dream boat. But in the very cladding of daily-do. And, strange to tell, the horizon has gone vertical and is radiant from a point within. A meeting point of anciently promised presence. With questions concerning practice becoming slipstream. As standard frequencies of ID progression begin neptuning into horizon-channel.
With this being so I am remembering Leonard C droning ‘all men shall be sailors then until the sea shall free them’. And seeing the song slipstreaming into a great wake which invites the massive overlay of ocean. I said to a friend recently ‘happy drowning in what is called to upheaval’, and quickly entered into the amazing peace of that as a benediction. Even before the arrival of quantum-charts the bearing is serenely sure and the wave-riding sweetly swift.
Certainly treasure chests of the deep are opening even as vistas of the Titanic going down, yet again, get more transparent as they get moronic mojo treatment. So it’s not all epic grandeur and profound stirrings of great meaning. Not while Popeye’s out of spinach and the Ancient Mariner’s hitting the champagne. Not while fatso-cruising smears inanely grinning grease on the face of the deep. And so on.
It’s what we are in, and it’s women and children first. In the best sense. And that’ll be this messaage in a bottle for whatever shining shore is yet to be.
