home sweet home

there she is folks.
i'll have better pictures of her soon.

zero hour

on thursday night i'm flying to new york city. this will be the beginning of my nine month stint as sailor and cook on the east coast.

-a pause in the dialogue for a moment of worry- "this is the day after tomorrow; holy shit!! what am i doing on this computer? i have a bag to pack, taxes to file, errands to run..."

back to the boat life. i'm excited to go back after two months off, time to stretch those sea legs and dust off the knives. boat life means: sailing, fresh wind in your face, salty spray off the bow, fantastic sun rise, [see it's sun rise 'cause i'll be on the atlantic. weird], cramped sleeping quarters, infrequent showers, dirty laundry out of a backpack, less internet access. damn i love it! the posts may be few and far between, but don't stop reading. the subject matter on the boat is much more interesting than me sitting around portland, drinking coffee, and bemoaning my solitary state. so fear not, keep reading, and expect the best.

~

i pet the cat. she glared at me and made a false move to flee, then rolled over so i had better access to her belly. i think i know how she feels.

i woke up at four in the morning to a wind storm wailing on the house like an angry child. from the state of my blankets, i could tell mortal battles had been waged in my sleep. if twisted sheets were lovers arms, no one would have to be lonely. we would fall into sleep every night with secret smiles and wait for our sweet dreams.

i have a crush on someone i've never met. i write their name on my notebooks. i call them and then hang up because i'm nervous. i keep a lookout- in every bar, every isle at the grocery store, every song on the radio. i search the space between shoulder blades, the curve of a neck, a strong hand. i wait to catch their eye in that moment that tells me they know who i am.

next time i'm wearing a helmet

it is a tradition to hold a dinner [read: a scotch fueled party] in memory of the scottish poet robert burns [1759-1796]. there is the drinking of scotch, and the eating of haggis; after trying three different types of haggis, i have to report to all you nay-sayers that the stuff is really good. nothing like that blood pudding/black sausage crap, which is what i was expecting. there is much toasting and reading of the dead man's poetry and there is music- we were serenaded by a very talented man with bagpipes and a local band. there was dancing, then there was wrestling and then there was fighting. fun fighting, but fighting nonetheless. big guys full of scotch fighting, big guys who don't know their own strength. i know i had a good time and i know wasn't that drunk, but i woke up the next morning, found two good sized lumps on my head and could not remember the latter part of the evening. getting hit in the head is worse than getting really sloshed. it's better on the ol' liver, it may be a good excuse for acting like an idiot, forgetting everyone's name and repeating conversations, but it doesn't wear off after a day of drinking water and feeling sorry for yourself, i've got the lumps to prove it.