And now, something exactly the same, yet totally different.

(I wrote this a few months ago as an exercise in dicking around with words. More importantly, it is the first time I've ever looked at something I've written after a few months and actually liked what I had made, unfinished though it may be. Ironic as all get out.)

Sometimes I just want to write, but my vocabulary is waning. I feel daily the strains of the anchor tugging from below, pulling against the ebb tide, so close to shore, yet so futile. I’m not getting pulled under, but I’m stuck on that goddamn reef. I must kill to free myself from the doldrums. Throw the horse off the boat and see what happens. Maybe the fucker will chew the rope off and the surf will deliver me to land.

But again, misplaced imagery and stale metaphors cannot help me escape the fact that I simply cannot write the way I want. I bob in the wake of idleness. Even lethargy seems like a destination at this point.

I wonder sometimes how I manage. Fortune (that wicked mistress of the worthless) keeps the torch in the lighthouse burning, and I keep Her close for She is my only ally against the barren horizon, which threatens to suffocate me with its immensity. The clouds hover with hands above my throat. Grab me, you devils.

They won’t. The bastards wouldn’t dare fuck with Fortune’s darling. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Lady Luck was a bitch to begin with. So they cry instead and the sky falls down on the quarterdeck; a cockroach dinner is interrupted as a deluge sweeps through the crags of the planks, driving the father through the threshold and into the sea. The lucky bastard will probably float on his back until his feelers caress the corroded sand of Catalina. Or he will sink like a brick. I couldn’t tell you, I have never watched a roach in water.

The waling winds coalesce with the weeping thunderhead, begetting the squall, and the tempest impregnates the sea. A growth amasses at the base of the nubilous sky, a faint glimmer at first, then an ominous distension of the sea.

Those assholes have teamed up. Do they not understand the repercussions of such an assault?

But the horizon continues to grow above the mast, while my tugs at the helm prove a futile gesture. A flash fills the air and the sky lets out a thunderous laugh at my silly obstinacy.

You fools, I am the protectorate.

But before the thought finishes, a potent fog engulfs the lighthouse of Fortune, and as quickly as it took God to create light, these devils take it away.

De dolore.

Est nulla supera veritas quam dolore. Solo per dolore sensus simplex declaratio sunt cuius vir vero sit. Patefacit amorem, odium, cupiditatem, metum. Nullum venenum potentior, atque nullus sensus gravior, quoniam dolor numquam dediscor; obruens dolum et fecundans naturam, animam ut olim coporem diluvit. Cum illi stirpes summum perveniunt, luce diei aluntur.

Modus hominis non est in facultate sua tolerare dolorem, at in facultate discere ab eo. Nam dolor neglecta dolorem iutam procreat. Dolor amoris interiti procreare potest condurati basii virum, sed non debet. Dolor amicitiae proditae procreare potest frigidi complexus virum, sed non debet. Est eiusmodi etiam vocare virum postea?

Atque fortunatus qui vulnerem sentiat ante ferrum transfigat ut nauclerus tunc. Videns tortatum fluctuandum in mente, cum quoque vulnere conivit et cum nauta animam retinuit in concentu. Inde, cum plure audentia quam verbi vehere possunt, nauclerus clamavit,

“Striga!”

There is no greater truth than pain. Only through pain can emotions be pure expressions of who the man truly is. It throws open the love, the hate, the desires and the fears. There is no drug more potent, nor feeling more crucial, for pain is never forgotten; it floods the soul as it once did the body, drowning all artifices and fertilizing the essence. And when those stems reach the surface, they are fed by the light of day.

The measure of the man lies not in his ability to cope with this pain, but rather, in his ability to learn from it. For pain ignored begets pain indulged. The ache of love lost may father a man of calloused kiss, but it must not. The sting of friendship betrayed may father a man of cold embrace, but it must not. Can such a man still be called a man thereafter?

And blessed be he who feels the cut before the blade pierces his own skin as the captain did just then. Watching the tortured man drifting in and out of consciousness, he flinched with each new wound and held his breath in unison with the sailor. Then, with more courage than words could convey, the captain cried,

“Stop!”

*****

Nauta sum. Lux est victus meus.
I am the sailor. The light is my sustenance.

O Male Vire

Animo adflicto, denique dolor corporem superavit et nauta ab nebula spectrorum cinctus erat. Omnes gesserunt faciem recognitam, et cum aciebus cordem inciderunt. Sciebat hos bene; sui ores aquam notam in palpebra. Illo momento sapere salem in lingua et sentire oppressum in pectore poterat. Et chorus spectrorum cecinerunt:

“O male vire, te mors sequitur, calamitas ducet. Nos, sepultos spes puerilis gloriae, contorquemus fundo maris, nam nulla requies in vestigiis tuis, nulla pax in caede tuo.

O male vire, ita carnem respondeat animum, unus cicatrix per quamque vitam correptam. Nunc sceleres insigniunt; superbia tua libido tua ferocitas tua proferunt ab falsa virtute.

O male vire, nunc custodes angeli sumus. Cum umbonibus tuos adversos protegemus; cum ferris concidemus. Sumus occulos caeli et te cadere videbimus. Deus insidiam tuam donet, nam castigabimus.

Sceleres reddita sint, tamen cicatrices manebunt.”

Deinde, gesta adflatu maris, nebula refugit; solus metus et serpentus reliquus.

His spirit broken, the pain finally overcame his body and he was enveloped in a cloud of apparitions. Each wore a familiar face, and with piercing gazes, they cut into his heart. He knew these men well; their faces were watermarks on his eyelids. For that moment, he could taste the salt on his tongue and feel the pressure on his breast. And then the spectral chorus sang:

“O wicked man, death follows you while calamity leads. We, the sunken dreams of childhood ambition, writhe on the sea floor, for there is no rest in your wake, no peace in your murder.

So wicked man, may your flesh answer to your soul, one scar for each life stolen. Now, your crimes mark you; your hubris, your lust, your arrogance are revealed through your false courage.

O wicked man, we are your guardian angels now. With our shields we will protect your enemies; with our swords we will cut you down. We are the eyes of heaven and we will watch you fall. May God forgive your treacheries, for we will punish them.

Your sins may be repaid, but your scars will remain.”

Then, carried by the wind, the fog receded; only fear and the serpent remained.

*****

Nauta sum. Lux est memoria mea.

I am the sailor. The light is my memory.

"Ut sit magna, tamen certe lenta ira deorum est." -Juvenal

Sicut dentibus virum in praeda aget serpens, cruentante hamo in nautam explevit tortor dolore non imaginato; plaga vulnusque numquam gravis adfatim nescire, tantummodo et corporem et animum vulnerare erant. Atque sicut idem virum, dolor per venas sparsit, contaminans omnes membros visceraque donec omnes visi sint quiritare in concordia;

“Imploramus, Domine, nos liberes!”

Sed nec sonitus salutis ab caela, nec ab ore nautae diserti venit. Aut arbitratu aut infantia, nauta ludum tortoris non dedidit; sub callo sub longitudine vulnerum sub conspectus anguineorum oculorum celavit quiritationem.

Inde, ut lanterna rubente radio protulit, per repagulas nefastae caveae, vidit nauclerum videntem scelerosum eventum; cum non signu, perrupit lacrima admixta sanguinem ab vapulatu.

As a snake drives its venom into its prey with its teeth, the tormentor filled the sailor with an agony he had never imagined with that stained hook; the stabs and cuts were never deep enough to kill, only to wound both body and spirit. And like that same venom, the pain coursed through the sailor’s veins, infecting every limb and organ before they all seemed to scream in unison,

“Please, Lord, release us!”

But no thunderous sound of salvation came from heaven, nor from the mouth of the forsaken sailor. Whether by willpower or inability, the sailor gave not into the tormentor’s sick game; he hid his screams under the skin, beneath the reach of the gashes, below the view of those snake eyes.

Then, as the lantern revealed with red-tinted rays, he saw the captain through the bars of this unholy prison watching the wicked proceedings; and with no warning, a blood-soaked tear broke from the battered man’s eye.

*****

Nauta sum. Lux est mea prolata.

I am the sailor. The light is my revelation.

"Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim" -Ovid

In fatale die, nauclerus ad cavea non venit. In suo loco, sordidus tortor tenens multas horridas armamentas in umbris exstitit. Ingredit lucem lanternae, dentibus serpentis subrisit, inde illam nautam sedilem adligavit. Unguiculi sui mucrones armamentarum responderunt atque cum attinebat carnem nautae interfoderunt.

Obrigescitus vinctusque nauta fortem orem sequente pro scelere gerere potui. Tortor labia cum lingua bifida hauriente dentibus linxit, inde mixturam salivae sanguinisque in orem nautae consputavit. Inquit cum captivum hamo demulsit, “si causam tuam dicebis, te quiritatione tua cumulata sanguine obruebo.” Nauta cum sole silentio respondit.

“Vero, non dicere sperabam,” inquit, inde cum risu taetro interfodit hamum in ventrem miseri viri.

One fateful day, the captain did not come down to the sailor’s cell. Instead, a sordid torturer appeared in the shadows wielding all sorts of horrible implements. He stepped into the light of the lantern and grinned with serpent teeth before binding the sailor to a bench. His fingertips matched the blades on his tools and they dug into the sailor’s flesh as he held him down.

Petrified and restrained, the sailor could only put on a brave face for the ensuing calamity. The tormentor licked his lips with a tongue split in two, drawing blood as it dragged across his teeth, then he spit into the sailor’s face that mixture of saliva and blood. “If you don’t speak your purpose,” he said as he stroked the captive’s brow with a fishhook, “I will make you drown in your own blood-filled screams.” The sailor responded with stoic silence.

“Truthfully, I was hoping you wouldn’t talk,” the serpent-man said, then, with a hideous laugh, he dug the fishing hook into the wretched man’s gut.

*****

Nauta sum. Lux est meus sanguis.

I am the sailor. The light is my blood.

Fabula pergit.

Multi menses abierant, tanti vero ut nauta captus quo usque in carcere sub ponte teneri oblitus sit. Nauclerus quotidie introibat ut interrogat, sed non potente dicere, quoque tempore nauta tacite sedebat. Hos congressus adsueti sunt, atque tametsi suspicax captivi erat, nauclerus paulatim coepit fruere virum. Indicta amicitia erat, occulta sub ululatu naucleri silentioque nautae.

Sed omnibus noctis cum sol in marem succidit, illi duo discesserunt; nauclerus ad zothecam redii, timens ne captivus insidiator sit et nauta, ut lucem iterum inveniat, in cavea mansit. Sed omnibus noctis, illi duo occulos clauserunt et tenebras palpebrarum fructi sunt.

Many months had passed, so many, in fact, that the captive sailor had lost track of how long he had been held in the brig. The captain of the ship would enter the cell everyday to question the sailor, but still unable to speak, the sailor sat mute each time. They became accustomed to this tradition over this period at sea, and despite the captain’s suspicion of the prisoner, he slowly came to like the man. It was an unspoken friendship, hidden beneath the captain’s yelling and the prisoner’s silence.

But as the sun sank into the sea each day, the two men would part; the captain would return to his chamber, fearing that the prisoner could be a waylayer, and the sailor would remain in his cage, fearing he would never reach the light again. But each night, the two men would close their eyes and enjoy the darkness of their eyelids.

*****

Nauta sum. Lux est tenebrae meae.

I am the sailor. The light is my blindness.

The third most important Elvis in world

I'm upset I found out about this just now, but Elvis Perkins has posted three songs from his upcoming album on his website, elvisperkins.net. Since his first album, Perkins has put together a band called Elvis Perkins in Dearland, and has apparently moved on from the melancholy of his first release. In his defense (not that he'd need one for an excellent album), Ash Wednesday was written in the wake of his mother's tragic death in the 9/11 attacks, a day before the anniversary of his father's death (the actor who played Norman Bates). It's still the simple but effective folk songs that brought him modest popularity, but there's a flair to these new songs which will surely bring him a larger audience this year.

Do yourself a favor and listen to the tracks on his website. I also put up a song from Ash Wednesday.

CLICK HERE DAMMIT