OF MY SHIP
The truth is lack of imagination.
Justino Correa
Do you know how difficult it is to be this self that I do not comprehend? Might Rosa imagine what it is like to live with the severity of my existence and without definition? What it is like not to be able to find comfort sufficient to rest this heart and this mind, I sadly know well. If you might have it as a problem to explain this self that I am to others, might you not also sympathize with the actuality that I am in command of a ship that will not let me dominate. It fires torpedoes when it pleases, it navigates towards the tropics or the arctic with unfathomed desires; I attempt to figure to no cause, ultimately I have had to surrender to the mutiny of my ship. Ship refuses to understand the oceans that current beneath its hull, it refuses to listen to the winds that might predict a storm, and even in the dark of night, where serene reef or rock might lie in harmful wait, my ship impetuously navigates staring at star light. When the morning rises, the sun blares upon deck and upon this flesh, and I am stunned to yet remain alive; curse this mutineer ship that won’t kill its captain nor welcome him at the helm. At times the uncharted journey grows long, and I rationalize or dream a bearing, where I might plan to dock or anchor, but my ship, violating all human rights, hastily changes course into the mist of yet unequaled darker oceans.
I sleep a gentle sleep, where the slightest feather cry might awaken me, spirits from my past rinse themselves through my flesh, whoosh last night, one edged my soul into the ceiling, where I cried more reality than the savage soul, proven by my soul’s acceptance of gravity’s weight, whoosh back down from the ceiling into me flesh. I endeavor to realize reality; I see colors, my ship mostly white from stern to bow, sized in tonnage and appearance like a cruise liner; I search in vain for others there, open hatches, navigate corridors of endless opportunity, I plant my watch about the encompassing bridge, but all is empty. I blank my face, expressions serve no purpose. I walk into my cabin where red leather bound books stare blank pages; manuals in the dozen, blank pages all lay exposed on my desk and on my night stand. I try to write, but ink is white as paper. No ship’s log to be found, has been stolen, and it could not have been too long, for though no sailors clean the deck, the spotless deck, the shining pearl white and brass have not a spec of dust.
And so it is my dear Rosa that from my ship I write to you; I don’t know if you existed before me, having I no presence to say when I was not me; through you I sense that there is a world out there, of strange proportions, I imagine, perhaps not as cold, and sterile, and perfect as my ship; a dirty world where sweat and blood rub shoulders, where lungs cough in blood their memories, where brains torture to read the histories immune to me. But then you say that you are you, and I am me, and that it is a good that there are two or three or more?
That can not be! I see nor eat no fish, I see no lion roar from afar, I see no humanity laboring to exist; I know these to be fantasies, where they might disappear were I to blink or die, though neither are my practice. My sleep, I sleep, I tell is light, but just as certain I can not explain this self nor the aimless patterns of my ship; I know somehow, that big fish swallow the little fish and race to stay alive; that the mighty lion, and the bear too, will slaughter their progeny to reign uncontested; sun too shines its rays deep and bright as to obscure all others; and more I know and hear silent humanity crawling gently to triumph and be all. But then you say that you are you and I am me, and that it is a good that there are two or three or more!
I do not remove my captain’s hat, decorum is followed with precision in my ship, there is no tolerance of insubordination, no leave of duty, and always I am calm but ready for alert. It seems impossible that another ship will sail my seas, never have we seen another, and have no guns to fire, not even trinkets to appease pirates that might rain upon me, where might they be; the hooded night might know but I do not. I keep my watch, I do this day and night, I do not even bother to undress or hide under the covers of my bed, but sleep on top always ready to rise should the waves declare a sound.
Knowing not how I could be another, how I might dare abandon ship, and share a drowning with the sea, or swim in glory with the mermaids and my Luna, or to seek a treasure in a sand dune in the middle of my sea. I do not dare, I do not dare.
But war it is and it will be the day that I not long for all to board my ship, to cruise with me these aimless seas, as I have done with dignity and duty, and not as two or three or more but as one of two of three like me. You declare that I ought fathom how wonderful they all might be, but I am frightened to horror by such specter, I nightmare the idea and fire one and two and three torpedoes and more until I have but none.
Where Lion and Bear and Human and Sun are the sarcophagus embodiments of dead things done, where to harden the belly with the dead gives life, and blood, and conquers too; were I, as you request to let them manifest themselves before my glorious and perplexed ship, how soon you think before their certainty would sink me? Not three nor two nor one day in my log am sure! Less than a whole sun takes to transpire the long trajectory it does by day, and less and less where my Luna might not have a chance to wish me farewell as I sneak into the sea. Not three nor two nor one.
Where everything seeks to vanquish everything you ask of me, to let there be, and two or three or more! I do not know what it might be like to share your thoughts on this, I fear perishing more than I fear the emptiness and lonely voyage of my ship and of this sea. I lack not courage. And like all others desire to be more as one, and not as two or three; never ought I suffer the desire to let them all consume my thoughts, and nourish on my flesh of dreams, so as to be more with all; instead I offer them, the small discomfort of my ship.
Justino Correa
Do you know how difficult it is to be this self that I do not comprehend? Might Rosa imagine what it is like to live with the severity of my existence and without definition? What it is like not to be able to find comfort sufficient to rest this heart and this mind, I sadly know well. If you might have it as a problem to explain this self that I am to others, might you not also sympathize with the actuality that I am in command of a ship that will not let me dominate. It fires torpedoes when it pleases, it navigates towards the tropics or the arctic with unfathomed desires; I attempt to figure to no cause, ultimately I have had to surrender to the mutiny of my ship. Ship refuses to understand the oceans that current beneath its hull, it refuses to listen to the winds that might predict a storm, and even in the dark of night, where serene reef or rock might lie in harmful wait, my ship impetuously navigates staring at star light. When the morning rises, the sun blares upon deck and upon this flesh, and I am stunned to yet remain alive; curse this mutineer ship that won’t kill its captain nor welcome him at the helm. At times the uncharted journey grows long, and I rationalize or dream a bearing, where I might plan to dock or anchor, but my ship, violating all human rights, hastily changes course into the mist of yet unequaled darker oceans.
I sleep a gentle sleep, where the slightest feather cry might awaken me, spirits from my past rinse themselves through my flesh, whoosh last night, one edged my soul into the ceiling, where I cried more reality than the savage soul, proven by my soul’s acceptance of gravity’s weight, whoosh back down from the ceiling into me flesh. I endeavor to realize reality; I see colors, my ship mostly white from stern to bow, sized in tonnage and appearance like a cruise liner; I search in vain for others there, open hatches, navigate corridors of endless opportunity, I plant my watch about the encompassing bridge, but all is empty. I blank my face, expressions serve no purpose. I walk into my cabin where red leather bound books stare blank pages; manuals in the dozen, blank pages all lay exposed on my desk and on my night stand. I try to write, but ink is white as paper. No ship’s log to be found, has been stolen, and it could not have been too long, for though no sailors clean the deck, the spotless deck, the shining pearl white and brass have not a spec of dust.
And so it is my dear Rosa that from my ship I write to you; I don’t know if you existed before me, having I no presence to say when I was not me; through you I sense that there is a world out there, of strange proportions, I imagine, perhaps not as cold, and sterile, and perfect as my ship; a dirty world where sweat and blood rub shoulders, where lungs cough in blood their memories, where brains torture to read the histories immune to me. But then you say that you are you, and I am me, and that it is a good that there are two or three or more?
That can not be! I see nor eat no fish, I see no lion roar from afar, I see no humanity laboring to exist; I know these to be fantasies, where they might disappear were I to blink or die, though neither are my practice. My sleep, I sleep, I tell is light, but just as certain I can not explain this self nor the aimless patterns of my ship; I know somehow, that big fish swallow the little fish and race to stay alive; that the mighty lion, and the bear too, will slaughter their progeny to reign uncontested; sun too shines its rays deep and bright as to obscure all others; and more I know and hear silent humanity crawling gently to triumph and be all. But then you say that you are you and I am me, and that it is a good that there are two or three or more!
I do not remove my captain’s hat, decorum is followed with precision in my ship, there is no tolerance of insubordination, no leave of duty, and always I am calm but ready for alert. It seems impossible that another ship will sail my seas, never have we seen another, and have no guns to fire, not even trinkets to appease pirates that might rain upon me, where might they be; the hooded night might know but I do not. I keep my watch, I do this day and night, I do not even bother to undress or hide under the covers of my bed, but sleep on top always ready to rise should the waves declare a sound.
Knowing not how I could be another, how I might dare abandon ship, and share a drowning with the sea, or swim in glory with the mermaids and my Luna, or to seek a treasure in a sand dune in the middle of my sea. I do not dare, I do not dare.
But war it is and it will be the day that I not long for all to board my ship, to cruise with me these aimless seas, as I have done with dignity and duty, and not as two or three or more but as one of two of three like me. You declare that I ought fathom how wonderful they all might be, but I am frightened to horror by such specter, I nightmare the idea and fire one and two and three torpedoes and more until I have but none.
Where Lion and Bear and Human and Sun are the sarcophagus embodiments of dead things done, where to harden the belly with the dead gives life, and blood, and conquers too; were I, as you request to let them manifest themselves before my glorious and perplexed ship, how soon you think before their certainty would sink me? Not three nor two nor one day in my log am sure! Less than a whole sun takes to transpire the long trajectory it does by day, and less and less where my Luna might not have a chance to wish me farewell as I sneak into the sea. Not three nor two nor one.
Where everything seeks to vanquish everything you ask of me, to let there be, and two or three or more! I do not know what it might be like to share your thoughts on this, I fear perishing more than I fear the emptiness and lonely voyage of my ship and of this sea. I lack not courage. And like all others desire to be more as one, and not as two or three; never ought I suffer the desire to let them all consume my thoughts, and nourish on my flesh of dreams, so as to be more with all; instead I offer them, the small discomfort of my ship.
posted by Ricardo Correa at 8/31/2006 12:40:00 PM
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