Land’s End, Marina Maintenance

Posted: March 22, 2016 in Page 8: Coming to Terms with Bad

Photograph reworked with Microsoft Paint.

Pleasure Boat: Forbid, Forbad, Forbidden. It’s so-so at best, not bad, so damned something else—or another. No, it is bad, that sea horizon cascading down the way it does. If it were real though, it would not only be not bad, it would be phenomenal—but it’s not—real. If anything, it makes you feel nothing. Attentive?—the surly, burly ‘marina cleana,’ employed for the comfort of others—to no avail—the mean slop ejected from the machine (lick your finger and hold it up to the wind), not to mention the iconic, mythical sail, the world over. Billowing.

A travesty of the human spirit—that ragged (Xyz /\) piecemeal thing shaped out of something or another, some kind of fir, or pine tree branch, or arrangement thereof, some kind of mass, anything but right (look for yourself), anything but light, conducive to flight. And whatever’s solid—that would be on shore—usually way upstream like solid oak, unseen like the forest for the trees…or the sea bed below, or the open seas, or the sea period for that matter, which is, after all, the matter at hand… Sinking. The whole chunk of a boat, “yacht,” cut out by hand, from the office block on land, taking a leak, the restrooms are private, on higher ground as with their lives, upper deck, the rigging—all inspired by a self-righteous, infallible (read rigged), plan, which isn’t necessarily bad either—as if you care, would care…for who are we to say?


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