Friday, October 10, 2008

The Sea Takes it All!
That’s the title of this Prologue. I’m now logging on a laptop—la-dee-da! These will most likely be corroded, lost, and forgotten before even being read by prying eyes. They will be written such. Those that survive survive. Those that don’t, well… Nothing lasts forever—except everything…

What a life it is.
That’s the subtitle. Those of these that survive to become officially logged logs—rather than just fragments of remembered lost-logs-long-gone-by—will consciously and intentionally be written in such a way so as to be free to be read. Thus, I will unfortunately, but necessarily, censor details which, if ever made known to a general public, or even especially to my parents, would obviously be ripe for their inevitable report to regulatory/religious/governmental “authorities” or any other
particularly chosen apparatuses of physical/ideological control. Further, I will attempt to write purposefully and presently, without intent for too much later correction/edit. I will attempt to avoid writing The Big Heavy Wood as some sort of personal memoir—my words being written, as such—and will, instead, attempt to write it as though, through some odd turn of events, per chance, the current focus of your lenses—through, then, the words being read. That being this, this being that, and both this and that being what they are and having been said:
It’s Big It’s Heavy It’s Wood

Thursday, January 31, ’08: Mission Bay, San Diego
Starting in the middle—or even at the end? Though all previous days of all previous weeks of all previous months inevitably entailed and were oft entangled with the fine fine vessel Iniki and most invariably entailed her sailing, serendipity now seems silly—to delve too deeply into the prologue: preparations, tidal-pier-tied-paintjobs, boat-work, boat-work, boat-work, rig-repairs-at-anchors, broken tillers, broken goosenecks, etc.—given that we’re only to finally actually leave for the great beyond either today or tomorrow.
However, in light of recent discoveries in the annals of the SIP archives, and in attempt to ensure their preservation, I open the Big Heavy Wood with a few narrated stills of the early life of the fine fine vessel Iniki followed by Life On a Sailboat Rocks—written over the first months aboard:

The Iniki as first found and fallen in love with Day 2: Brighter skies and a new paintjob

Day 2: Time to get wet

Note the burned window

Decrepit but afloat

One year haul-out:
Being painted by the Beautiful Porschia of Catalina Isle

Christening By Johnboy A. Santino

Life On A Sailboat Rocks! by Andrew Yeager

By Andrew Yeager

Life On A Sailboat Rocks!

& the stars never tire of their dancing

My hatred boils from deep within,
but of course it is not my only sin.
My sin…
My sins--where to begin?
I want to confess, but I'm not free--
what goes to sea must stay at sea.
But then there's me
(or can there be?
and can it be shown?
without all cover being blown?
without all Being being blown?)
and I alone--
I am alone.
I'm alone again at sea
With only pills to comfort me.
Yet a comfort they won't bring--
my sickened stomach's churning
midnight oils are burning.
I search and seek for answers
opening and slamming closed doors.
I say goodbye just after hello
and the only ones I hate are the only ones I know.
But I don't.
I don't know.
"I don't know anything
I wasn't told
and even if i did know I didn't know
until after I knew!"
That the case, what could I do?
What, then, could I have done?
I thought me nearly finished
I think I've just begun.
And still on this rocking sea
it seems I'm the only one.
Alone at last--alone again.
Alone alone--alone with friends.
The only time I leave alone:
when I count my enemies.
What I hate--what I am not
determines what is left to be--
and this the bond keeping you from me?!?
But truly who are you?
Truly who could you be?
Choose truly from the list of those things that are not me.
And truly who am I?
And must I even be?
I am
only and truly
dually (or undually?)
lost at sea.
(Or can it be--
and could it be--
that 'tis indeed the sea
that's truly lost at me?)

And can I ever feel a needle
or truly just its sting?

Yes, these islands seem to glow
in the early morning lights
but to those of us who truly know
day is wrought with loss of night.
Photons bounce
form and shape
notions oft imposed
impossibly escaped.
Color, Dimension, Distance, Size--
Baal controls the mind
not with the powers due a god
but with the strongarm of the eyes!

--And truly who can spot the subtlety
between "know" and "recognize"?--

In the dark there can be not.
There can be naught.
In the dark there can be--
and so small a part is bent by what can be seen.
In the void definitions change--veering from what they are
while skies touch the seas, Isles reach the stars.
The nights give possibility to what days will not allow;
the only pre-determined place is here
the only time: now.

But mornings bring masses
and dollars to be spent;
evenings asses
and their intoxicants;
afternoons rich families’
spoiled children cry
and I spend all day waiting
for the day at last to die.

And die it will--
for die it must
that forever still
In Baal We Trust.

Then, before it does,
while yet in my despair,
I faintly smell a breeze wafting gently through the air!
Pulling my anchor, I set my sail.
Reaching out, I grasp and flail.
Sheeting in, I beg and plea
to whatever winds might now have me.

Oh, this agony--this frustration,
I've felt before
overwhelming desire
NEED to be anywhere
save for right here
right now.

Life's breath--in silent indignation,
it chills my core
I can do naught but tire--
yeild again to the air
just as I fear
I'm dragged again to town.

It's not to where I tried to aim
(I've never aimed to
only always away.)

But as you cannot flee yourself
I can’t seem to leave this town;
I reach again to put my past on the shelf
and time again it falls back down.
And again I see I'm playing the game.
And, whether or not I meant to,
again I play.
So have I changed? Am I the same?
Is there nothing I can do?
Just pass the day
pass the day
No matter what I do
this too shall pass away.
This teacup will too break.
I cannot shed a tear--
cannot plan the wake.
I cannot even partake.
Just watch it go--say goodbye;
no need for dramatics.
All that lives will soon die,
all I have, I’ll soon not have it.
Nothing's forever 'cept the earth and sky,
and what but money
can your filthy money buy?
All I need's at my fingertips.
But I play the game
to entertain my brain;
it's all the same
Time is on the wane.
I can't accumulate it
just watch it slip away--
always counting down
to that last minute of my last day.
Juggle these Glass Beads
play pente' with those.
Who cares what game is played?
Who care whether you play the game
or whether it plays you?
Always wandering,
this ceaseless contemplating--
never knowing just what to do...

And when that day comes?
When down I lie--
dirt six feet high--
will no one even cry?
For my sorry soul will no one plea?
Passersby passing by,
will I be leaving you
or you be leaving me
when indeed my blessed eve draws nigh?
But wait!
I refuse to be leaving!
I refuse to believe in


Will Die.
Meanwhile, paint me more lies
and we'll part with a sigh
no long goodbye's--
once "we" again "I"
once "day" again "night"
once "courage" again "fright"
once and again seems my delight.
("My delight is in the Lord")
Of these trite things I tire--
With these words I'm bored.
Must light me a new fire
kindle something to live for:
a flame burning
not out my core.

My life now stands mid-summer;
my breath still breathes the spring.
I have so much left to learn;
I know everything.
(everything but the truth--
which always evades--
is my piece the King?
Am I but a pawn in this game--
This Glass Bead Game?)
And when the fall comes
will I even feel the same?
Should I feel the same?
Could I feel the same?
And when next winter comes
must I remember last winter's pain?
Does its--could its--would its--loss count my gain?
(Or merely suppression in my brain;
Introspective mess,
but I digress.
Thought my worst mutation
my festering abscess.

And here now, as with the end of the page,
I feel in the play of my life,
I'm forced on to a new stage.
All this thinking of thinking--
soon I'll have written of writing
(or soon, I suppose, you'll have read)
and by then will be too late
for anything else I may have wanted to have said.
Yet even as this stage's end comes racing my way
I still don't do what I should do or say what I should say.
With but four more lines there’s no time to delay
Quickly, say what you can; SCREAM to the passing day!
Shhhh, be quiet, listen, adore--silently pass away
silently pass away.