Blue Pills and Microscopic Terrorists

16MAY09 – Heavy weather today. A fresh patch meant I’d spent much of it drugged in my rack, twisted sheets and feverish dreams. Woke in the night, thirsty. Ventured out on deck to write my head down:

“Writing in the dark, uncertain of my letters or their placement upon the page, more words lost in the nothingness. Cyalume sticks bob like tiny suns in the dark.  The ocean began as handfuls of emeralds and beer foam.  By dinner, it’d become a million wheelbarrow loads of smashed automotive safety glass.  Just before sundown, fine streaks of Italian marble could be seen in every heaving silken wave…

Feels like I’m sailing to the New World; spilled stars from heaven’s jar skittering across the floor of the sky.  The ship is trimmed in soft blues and reds to preserve night vision.  Think of those who first learned to create the ancient ships. Probably the Phoenicians thought it up, but it took a Greek to work out the math.  Sailing across the sea is part science, part sorcery.  You’ve never heard anything so beautiful as the story of Polynesian Astral Navigation.  Will I read these words in the morning and remember how it all felt?  Will the garish light of day drive the True Meaning from my head like a half-remembered song?  Something about ‘bouncing light’… dream journal is a Blue Pill, fading.  Frantically jotted instructions to my waking self: “Must find secret entrance back to Lost World!”  Microscopic terrorists glow in bursts along the bow, soft green lightning bug martyrs for Allah.  Do fish believe in God?  Neptune, perhaps?

Look up through skeletal yards and hog-tied sails at the stars beyond; drunken careening through space, such majesty I may never describe!  I half expect we’ll do a barrel roll any minute; revealing for a moment the stars below us, the suns of another dimension.  Only those with split-second timing and balls of steel would make the decision to jump into the unknown, into so much possibility, to risk it all on a hunch.  Would they survive their own courage or suffocate in the freezing darkness, lost now to both worlds? Impaled on the second hand of the Great Clock, a st-st-st-stutter of time.  Our own ocean roars in once again, and the gate is sealed forever.

I may never see this place again.  “Well then, it’s probably important that you pay close attention.”

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