Sunday night, at my desk:
I spent most of my holiday weekend on a friend’s boat, where-from we drank and watched harmless incendiary explosives detonate over Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. I’d become so well acclimatized to the slow rattle of the dock that I feel, now back on hard land, as if I’m bobbing at my desk. It might also be the fatigue of three sleepless nights. Insomnia still firmly has me.
Ignoring my inescapable complaints of crowds and the single instance of terrible bar service, the weekend was very pleasant. I don’t remember wanting to murder idiots more than once, twice tops.
Andy was annoyed, but I was made to feel at home by the ubiquity of shitty sea puns surrounding us in the form of boats’ names. I thought we should name his dingy “I Sea What You Did There.”
In a dream, in-between:
The boat shook and for a moment I feared I’d be cast overboard. I’d fallen asleep leaning over the rail, but now I knew we were no longer docked. Putting my hand to catch myself I find the keyboard instead of the gunwale.
I’ve passed into dreaming three times already. I should go to bed, sleeping at my desk leads to unpleasant neck cramps and worse rest.
Mary lies asleep and I am alone and I keep recalling the sense of the water, both of the recent times and of those from my months on the Pride of the Susquehanna. The bobbing, not rocking, that comes of passive water.
I feel it still. I’m beginning to think less that I’ve thoroughly readjusted to sea-faring and more that I’ve dehydrated my inner ear. Time will tell. Kung fu will tell more direct and immediately. One pictures the patented Family Guy style one-frame-fall.
Once we’d awoken Andy’s parents took us out into the harbor. The dogs, who’d decided I was either their long lost sibling or new Alpha, spent most of the ride next to or on top of me. It was a nice trip, the air was very pleasant. I don’t think there’s anything quite so satisfying as a natural breeze. Some speed boat blew past us, chopping slashes at us through the water. Before we could conjure curses he hit the water hard, nearly disembarking himself and his equally bro-terrific passengers into the middle of the harbor. No need for insults, he’d nearly had his death, karma’d dealt the invective for us.
My head is still a bit in shambles. Thinking clearly, even after a pint of coffee, isn’t easy. It might be a day best spent resting quietly, one more for input than production. I’ll continue my gentle scour of the internet for grad schools and writing contests, journals and to read and to which to submit. If I write, it’ll be like this, sporadic and as it comes to me. Perhaps when that buoying sensation departs my thoughts will be more even keeled.