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tremonius [userpic]

Avast!

August 20th, 2006 (09:30 am)

This is now a ghost ship.



I'm going to leave it stocked and set the sails and allow it to plow the sounding furrows and eventually sink as it lists.

I looked for the key to scuttle it, but couldn't find it. 

The Bounty mutineers, on arriving on Pitcairn, debated what to do with the ship.  I think they should've cast it adrift under full sail.  I like to imagine the Bounty still out there somewhere on the high seas, with no direction home. 

Instead they burned it.  Where's the imagination in that?

I'm going to cut all my references and links and set this craft floating free.  I met some friends here.  Goodbye, friends.  Most of you have already abandoned ship.  It's all right.  Really.

From where the sun now sits, I will sail this barge no more forever.

Comments

Posted by: She who must be obeyed (throbinson)
Posted at: August 20th, 2006 04:54 pm (UTC)
wave curl

What did we used to call that back in the day, Trem? Some kind of a sayonara?

What's going on with you these days? I hope that you and yours are well.

Posted by: Melancthe the Woe, So-Called (melancthe)
Posted at: August 22nd, 2006 02:30 pm (UTC)

I'm sad you're leaving like this. Take care of yourself, and best of luck to you.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: January 31st, 2007 10:47 pm (UTC)

I suppose we have towns like that in Georgia, but I grew up mostly in the city. We had a house on the corner of two streets; one dead-ended into a cemetary and one was narrow and winding and everybody sped down it. There were several pastures with cows and horses, and I grew up with the smell of dung and hay in my nostrils, passing the merit tests of who-can-hold-the-electrified-wire-the-longest with the other neighborhood kids. My summers were spent shovelling shit and working horses for a kind lady who realized the advantages of free labor in exchange for letting me live out a girlhood dream.

And for two or three weeks every summer, there was Alabama. My mother grew up there: dirt poor, using an outhouse until she was eighteen.

As a child, my memories are of playing in the boat that was permanently parked in the front yard of my mother's old childhood cabin. Empty aluminum pie tins were the finest banquet table settings, and pinecones, seeds, acorns, twigs, and nettles were the fare. The cabin was only one room, but my uncle and aunt improved it by hanging black curtains on clothespins in long, winding rows to create the illusion of rooms and privacy. There was one closet, filled to bursting with all manner of clothing, shoes, broken toys formerly cherished by my two cousins. We would bury ourselves in the closet and play hide-n-seek.

The land of Alabama: the rolling hills, the sight of an occasional bear roaming the sides of the backyard ravine, the deer ravaging the pathetic garden, the arrowheads lining the drainage ditches of the dusty dirt roads, tickhunting about as common as breathing before bedtime, and the snakes lazily sunning themselves on the baked clay before the rains came. If you encountered one, or were misfortunate enough to step on one, picking him up and throwing him into the bushes was acceptable ... as long as you didn't get bitten. There were always a few three legged dogs running around the property.

Once, when playing in the boat, my cousin Jason jumped off and went to a nearby tree to urinate. My uncle worked nights at the mill and was forever sleeping; there was Hell To Pay if you woke him up during the day, so we were always banished from the cabin with pie tins in hand and the words "find something to do," etched in our brains. Jason took his time peeing against the tree, and then did a miraculous thing. He ran off shouting towards the cabin, stumbling over his pants which he left around his ankles.

I knew we'd get tanned if my uncle woke up, but instead he came stumbling out of the house, blinking against the sunlight, with a hoe. Jason was pulling his pants up while my uncle strode over to the tree, hoe held ready. I stood in the boat, marveling at the sight of my uncle in the sunlight. I never saw him during the day. He reached down at the base of the tree and pulled up a snake, easily five feet long, holding it just behind the head. The body was whipping around and was thicker than the upper part of my thigh.

He came to the boat and gave us all the look. My uncle didn't say much but when he spoke you had better pay attention. We were quiet. He thumbed open the snake's mouth, turned the hoe upside down so the curved end of the wooden handle was facing upwards, and fitted the snake's mouth around the top so that its fangs pressed into the wood. He pushed down with his other hand, and we saw the venom well up and run down the handle of the hoe. All the while the snake's body was whipping, curling and frantic, hitting him in the legs of his coveralls.

"See that?" he asked. We all nodded respectfully. "Shit'll kill ya." And with that, he grabbed the snake by its tail, yanked it up and off the hoe handle, and thwacked it by the head against the side of the boat all in one motion. He was striding off towards the house before any of us could move. We left the snake there, struggling by the boat, and went to play in the ravine for the rest of that day. Later on, he skinned it and nailed it to the side of the shed. That's my uncle Don.

I know one-sided towns with dilapidated shacks and tin rooves and toothless old men sitting outside in the heat next to flea-ridden dogs and the smell of barbecue in the air. Oh yes, I know that well.

Posted by: tremonius (tremonius)
Posted at: February 5th, 2007 11:15 pm (UTC)
Song Sung True

This is probably the best that's ever been here. You surely deserve a better audience than me, and I hope you write for lots of folks. Maybe them other two, the only ones to note my dying swan act, will see this. Best snake story ever told, and I remember some in certain anthologies down south.

Hemingway said, fiction has to be true. And yet in one story I remember one old swamp rat was wading in the Everglades, and he felt lots of squirming all around his legs, but he wasn't worried, because them cotton-headed rattle-moccasins never bit under water.

That's very reassuring, ain't it? Not the less so that it's utterly false.

There was another tale, this one apocryphal (means it's a lie) about one old boy water skiing out at The Park. You know the reeds across the Lake? Over there where you face towards if you're swimming. This old boy fell off his skiis - into a submerged nest of thousands of water moccasins over in the reeds. And was bitten about a thousand times. (I don't know who counted.)

"He all right?" I asked Mathews, who told the tale. He looked at me incredulous like, as if I was doubting him or something.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 6th, 2007 07:45 am (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

I write for myself, really. But it is always nice when another person shows an interest. I like to tell stories, and I have a lot of them. Much the same as I enjoy a camera because I can create a memory by using one, I can do the same by writing something down.

There's a line in a David Lynch movie that I really enjoyed. When asked if he owned a video camera, the husband says "No. I want to remember things the way I want to remember them, not necessarily how they actually happened." I've always loved the idea of that -- only, because I can't really imagine being dishonest, my task is to take my memory and paint it up real nice and put it out there as A Story and change it. Into something that I don't mind remembering as much.

Cottonmouths will bite you anywhere; I've never heard the not underwater thing. Although they're much slower to bite or startle when they're sunbaked and warm. I've stepped on quite a few in my lifetime and the most that's ever happened to me has been staring down the throat of that chalk-white, fanged mouth and hearing the hiss of absolute displeasure. When that open mouth yawns at you and you hear that hiss, you'd better stand very still (if you're too close) or run like hell if you know you can skedaddle.

For the truly daring, there's always picking the snake up and pitching him off somewhere else and THEN skedaddling. My parents would probably have had nineteen heart attacks if they knew we used to "fool with snakes" by teasing them with strings and whatnot as children.

Sometimes I'm surprised I made it out of childhood alive.

Posted by: tremonius (tremonius)
Posted at: February 6th, 2007 06:13 pm (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

I think Dada and Cubism resulted from the camera as well. If grim reality came out of a box, then reinterpretation was the only field left to painting. No more Reynolds and Cassat.

There is a learned old proverb which related to trouble you seek out. Wise heads know enough of it will find you in time, and sufficient unto that day is the evil thereof, as scripsher sayeth.

A boatman is cautioned to leave swimming cottonmouths alone. For if you attempt to bash one with your oar, be you as dumb as dubyah, and perchance you break the skin, that reptile will find the water particularly excruciating to his bare places, as would we all. He will thus attempt to locate dry right quick, which he will find in your boat. You will thus have one very angry set of fangs to contend with, where before you might have just floated along without trouble.

This is known as the Iraq Premise down south. Some dunderheads never learned it. Or anything else.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 7th, 2007 01:14 am (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

There's a brilliance to seeking out trouble, though. You always get what you pay for. I ran away from my parents as a child, determined to make my way in the world at whatever cost. I ended up in far worse straits with an abusive older person who took advantage of me. But I wouldn't go back, because this was the choice I'd made. I'd made it, sought it out, cultivated it, and it was mine.

When things got bad I'd run away from him, too. I'd go down to Stuart Avenue with a poached bottle of whisky and roam the streets: a sixteen year old girl with the sides of her head shaved and a tough attitude only barely masking the fragile nature beneath. I did this for two reasons. The first, it would piss him off and when he eventually found me I'd receive a sound beating that I thought I deserved, and two -- I wanted to see what I could survive on my own.

One startling night I was picked up by several men in a van who tried to force me at gunpoint to do various nasty things to everyone. I refused, there was a scuffle, and I ended up thrown out of the van through the sliding door holding onto someone's ponytail. I had liberated it with my fishing knife, kept in my boot. When my lucky abusive older boyfriend found me hours later, I was sitting on the curb on Stuart Avenue, eating fried chickenm, drinking whisky, and I had a bloody ponytail clutched in my left hand.

There are some troubles you seek out and only luck helps you escape them. The universe snaps back at you, like a rubber band.

Snakes are easier to manage than people.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 6th, 2007 07:50 am (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

Oh, and I just re-read what I wrote and wanted to clarify something.

I don't mean that I change the stories of what I write, or change the memories. I don't do that because it wouldn't be real, then. But what I do enjoy about writing, or photography.. Is that you can change the way something feels, or change the lines that shape it, by how you make it real for someone else.

When I draw I can use thick black lines, or really thin sketchy ones. One lends an air of solidarity, the other perhaps some hesitance.. but the subject is the same.

My life is filled with uncertain moments. A lot of them were and are negative, to some people. My particular pleasure is taking a moment that would horrify most people and managing to convert it over into something that makes them feel otherwise. Not horror, but envy. Not fear, but respect. Not pain, but pleasure-through-pain.

I think that's the meaning of art, honestly. Changing a real thing, a tangible feeling or moment or happening -- And making it perceivable (and perhaps even better) through your rendering of it. And once people can see the two perspectives, you've actually changed something. Made a difference.

I gratefully submit that you do that for me, which is why I enjoy reading what you write, and our conversation here. Thank you.

Posted by: tremonius (tremonius)
Posted at: February 6th, 2007 06:17 pm (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

My favorite example of a travelers tale is from my own history.

I told a story once in NerdNosh which figured one very dramatic comeback victory by my high school team and the only time I can recall my Daddy showed unbridled exuberance as a result.

Now, that's a good story, my brother Reloj said. It has pith and pathos. It's right affecting.

However, it didn't happen that way. It couldn't have. Daddy was dead for four years by the time of the big runback against McKinney.

Oh, yeah, I admitted. That's right. Anyway, it's factual, if not actual.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 7th, 2007 01:18 am (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

Sometimes I get the feeling that you are laughing at me. I am not always with it, whenever subtle humor is concerned. Reloj is Spanish for Watch. Do you have a brother named Watch? For that matter, what's NerdNosh?

Mixing up memories is another reason that I take photographs. I have face-blindness, and I can't remember the faces of the people that I love. Everybody looks like a ghost to me: their features blend together into sameness. Even people like my parents or my friends, I have to identify them by noting particular characteristics about them and then actively trying to remember them. A haircut, a ballcap, or a cold-voice can throw me off completely.

So I take photographs. I photograph the faces that appear like flickers across the features I can't recognize, so that I can obsessively pore over them when I'm alone and marvel at their beauty. Because I can't remember it on my own. And to remember in sequence? Why, that might be boring..

Posted by: tremonius (tremonius)
Posted at: February 8th, 2007 11:39 pm (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

Sometimes I get the feeling that you are laughing at me. I am not always with it, whenever subtle humor is concerned. Reloj is Spanish for Watch. Do you have a brother named Watch? For that matter, what's NerdNosh?


Whatever have I ever written to cause you to feel I am laughing at you? I am utterly mistified.

Reloj was the name given to my brother during one or another of our Mexican ventures. Briefly, he was the one in Monterrey that season who had the watch. Also, he used the Dali logo from The Persistence of Memory, the one of the flaccid railroad watch?

NerdNosh is, like some of us, not that strength which of old moved heaven and earth, but such as it is, is, here. That's the login instructions for it, a mailing list. You can join. There are probably a couple three hundred readers there. It's a web log, except group written, and founded in 1992, so it's the first.

Come on.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 9th, 2007 12:17 am (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

Oh, I didn't mean that in a bad way, about the laughing at me part. I just have this mental image of you. Perhaps it's more a feeling, since I don't know anything about you or what you look like. There's just a shape in my mind, a male shape, of a man at a keyboard with a certain sense of levity in his mind, writing his responses to me with purposefully oblique or vague terms left open to interpretation. And sometimes that imaginary person is laughing.

I meant no harm with the query -- I am autistic, and I am sometimes completely oblivious to the more subtle forms of sarcasm. I don't always know if they're directed at me, or meant to be shared WITH me, and so in order to prevent blunders of the worst order I've found that it's just easier to ask.

I am glad for the mental shape and image that you occupy within my mind. It makes me feel very much less alone, even though I don't know you in the slightest bit except for what we share when writing to each other. Please, I hope you weren't offended.

Reloj is a wonderful name. I wish that I had a brother with a moniker that represented a good story. Mine has nicknames, but none of the stories associated with them are stories that I should choose to remember if I could help it.

I will check out NerdNosh. It sounds very interesting. I'm Paravati all over the internet (more than one identity would be really hard for me to keep track of.. Wasn't it Abe Lincoln who said that if you were honest all the time, you shouldn't have to ever remember anything? That's me, the same everywhere, or else I'd be hopelessly mired in details I couldn't remember.)

Thanks for the invite.

Posted by: tremonius (tremonius)
Posted at: February 9th, 2007 10:04 pm (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

I just read that one out of five children are autistic. I heard elsewhere the percentage of left-handers in the general population is 17. I have noticed that left-handed (sinister) women are often very attractive. I wonder if I just notice them because they are attractive, or because they are left-handed. Each trait is notable.

Isn't it great, this abandoned train station? I think I'll rename it after the Katy going through Bonham. You can talk freely here. It's only a room full of old echoes, after all.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 9th, 2007 11:19 pm (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 9th, 2007 07:32 pm (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

Okay, I did the signup thingie. Waiting on acceptance now.

Posted by: tremonius (tremonius)
Posted at: February 9th, 2007 09:54 pm (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

You're already accepted, I'm sure. Now sit down and write a story. Tell something. And send it to

bo.dark@yahoo.com

That's the new address. I'm at that end of the game. I'll run it soon as it arrives almost.

We need ya, kid.

I am studying now autoimmune reactions. Like, two folks on a train, the tubercular wing.

"I have the distinct feeling you're coughing with me."

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 9th, 2007 11:22 pm (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 9th, 2007 11:25 pm (UTC)
Re: Song Sung True

Posted by: tremonius (tremonius)
Posted at: February 10th, 2007 12:18 am (UTC)
I Am ... I Said

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 10th, 2007 12:28 am (UTC)
If you know what I mean.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 9th, 2007 11:27 pm (UTC)
No quiero que te moleste, pero...

Posted by: tremonius (tremonius)
Posted at: February 10th, 2007 12:12 am (UTC)
Re: No quiero que te moleste, pero...

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 10th, 2007 12:23 am (UTC)
Re: No quiero que te moleste, pero...

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 10th, 2007 12:42 am (UTC)
Ok, ya se mande algo.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 10th, 2007 01:20 am (UTC)
Steep steps.

Posted by: tremonius (tremonius)
Posted at: February 13th, 2007 08:14 pm (UTC)
Re: Steep steps.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 13th, 2007 08:22 pm (UTC)
Re: Steep steps.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 13th, 2007 08:25 pm (UTC)
Re: Steep steps.

Posted by: tremonius (tremonius)
Posted at: February 13th, 2007 09:23 pm (UTC)
Re: Steep steps.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 14th, 2007 06:50 am (UTC)
Re: Steep steps.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 21st, 2007 05:30 am (UTC)
Re: Steep steps.

Posted by: tremonius (tremonius)
Posted at: February 22nd, 2007 02:42 pm (UTC)
Re: Steep steps.

Posted by: paravati (paravati)
Posted at: February 22nd, 2007 04:51 pm (UTC)
Re: Steep steps.

33 Read Comments