August 28. The young sailor boy.

And the blue water around the island rippled and glistened and sighed with her low gulping voice. The hot afternoon sun draws sharp shadows of the telephone lines under the balcony. A future threw a shadow back upon this moment, a future envisioned and hold dear. But the moment is now and that future far away. My soul should glisten and ripple like the white water in the wake of the motorboat first, there is so much to be done for this island to turn into a dream. We swim the quiet sea, we walk on the winding asphalt and eat in a taverna with a wonderful view. I order a plate of fried anchovies and a Greek salad. The sun sets earlier than I thought and the night is silent. Roaring car engines contrast the quietness of the islands and make me more aware of it. The island has taken me to-day, and I don’t write, like I do to-morrow.
And now something more Gargantuan. Where have the days gone, you sculptured mariner, when the sea was wild and could swallow a ship, the days when despair was a good seaman’s right and you could sail beyond the horizon on a flat globus?
– Ay ay, young sailor boy, you have read too much poetry you have. Now look at you, all pale, the letters injected a false romanticism under your skin. Times have ne’er been like that. Wild as the sea, o yes, and in desperation whole fleets went to the bottom, and we’ve known the unknown too, far beyond the horizon, my boy.
– Will I ever sail a wild sea then, will I?
That you will, for sure. Aren’t you mortal a being?
– Yes, of course, and so?
There is your horizon, unknown what awaits you beyond that horizon, and as bold as may your frenzy fantasies be.
– But that is not what I mean…
It is all what you get, boy, now listen. The times have never gone; wild seas and despair have always been there. You will encounter all the wild seas you are looking for, boy, all the seas you CAN be looking for.
– But I admire your sculptured face old mariner, I love your wild grey beard I do, and the nose that’s like an eagle’s beak, so strong. Have you seen your lips, those impressive furrows, and the maculae, and those spots on your cheeks, that ugly scar that seems to be stiched by a crab. I can never become like that. How could I ever be satisfied with death and the one-way wildwater ramp sweeping me into her unknown lap? I want more!
Why not do like everbody else and go to the movies? That is what you should do boy, go to the movies. The are SPECIALIZED in cases like you.
– Is that so, you old sculptured mariner. Easily you can talk. After all, you carry life on your face. It lives right there in the carves and scarred furrows of your face. But look at me. My skin is soft, and immaculate, so where is the life? I am entitled to it, am I not?
O please, boy, you know. Such is the order of things. Either you go to the movies or take an axe and slay me.
– The order of things. Can this be resolved? [The boy picks up an axe and cuts his finger] Ouch! I’m bleeding. Look what you’ve done.
[The sculptured mariner takes the axe away from him and puts a cottton plaster on the wound.]
This will heal quickly. It is a sharp incision, the skin will grow together easily.
– Will it leave a scar?
Don’t you worry, boy –
[The sculptured mariner puts away the axe and takes the boy by his hand.]
Tonight’s movie is about a young skipper who sails all the way to Greece by himself, enduring dangerous cliffs and barbarous sharks…
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Kamiel Choi

Dutch philosopher and poet, sometimes sharing thoughts on the internet.

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